Drink My Soul
by thedarkcircle
Summary: When Myra agreed to stay with the Dracula's and her brother she knew she was taking a risk. But when everything she does brings up a past she'd rather forget, and someone she'd tried to run from finds her- trouble once again surrounds the Dracula's. CD/OC
1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**_ So I'm relatively new to meaning instead of just _reading_ fanfiction I've finally decided to try my hand at writing. This is something that has recently popped into my head. I have a relatively large obsession with Young Dracula at this point, and am still in the process of learning (or re-learning) characters based off of season three. So as much as I'm trying to write 'in character' please forgive me if they become 'OOC' instead._

_Also, as I'm still sketching out events, I'm open to any ideas you have in regards to the story. Last but not least, don't forget to review—enjoy!_

_**Drink My Soul**_

_**Prologue**_

The half moon peaked from between two wispy grey clouds illuminating what had been, one moment ago, pitch black. Standing alone in the British countryside at a T-road junction Vladimir Dracula sniffed the air in haste, trying desperately to find the one thing he'd bonded to amongst his self designated seclusion at Garside Grange.

"Erin!" he bellowed into the air, "I won't hurt you!"

He fell silent as his voice faded into the night. A hushed quiet met his ears. Not a single rustle of a bush, or the crunch of a twig under a heavier weight. He couldn't smell a single thing—but Vlad knew for certain, knew with every ounce of his being, that Erin had run this way. She _had_ to be using that stasis spray— **thing**, masking her scent and hiding her heartbeat. Anger coloured his pale cheeks. If it hadn't been for _her_ none of this would have happened. And of course _he _still would have been oblivious to the fact that Erin was a breather. And Erin would have still been at his home. Close enough for him to touch, and talk to. Perhaps even for more—if he'd managed to muster the courage.

But all chances of that happening were blown.

"I will find you Erin," he vowed softly to the sign posts, "I promise."

With that, he flittered back to the home which he once again hated.

Back to _her_.

The two clouds had seemingly melded into the one and shifted to block out the light of the moon. Beneath, on the earth—all light was swallowed up, and at the T-junction, lying as still as possible in the brush alongside the road was Erin.

"I'm sorry Vlad," came the soft petrified whisper.


	2. Chapter One: Take Me

_**(Disclaimer- I own nothing but the general storyline and any OCs)**_

**Author's Note:**_ And now for chapter one introducing the OC Myra. Just a quick shout out to _Pretty Reckless_ with their song 'Make Me Wanna Die' which is the inspiration for this story- enjoy!_

_**Drink My Soul**_

_**Chapter One: Take Me**_

Heels clacked roughly against the cobble-stoned streets as the sound ricocheted into the empty night air. Myra kept her head down, and hidden by her long black locks.

Dirty, that's what she felt. And used, and beaten, and—she swallowed a sob, moving even faster, running almost. The cold night air whipped at pale skin and in a mini black dress, with matching thigh high boots there was a lot of that. But cold was all in the mind, and Myra ignored all other thoughts except the desire to keep moving. Where? She didn't know. But anywhere was better than where she had been. At least, that's what she kept telling herself. She'd flown to two different countries, flittered from one place to another—hadn't even stopped to drink. Of course the sun posed a large problem for a vampire, and so she took shelter only when the heat prickled at her skin before beginning the agonising burn.

Yes, Myra was a vampire.

She didn't have a death wish. But she had nowhere to go. She destroyed all ties to those who at one time called her 'friend', even with her brother Bertrand. Myra stopped in her tracks. A pair of footsteps bumbled to a halt behind her—she was being followed. The hunger from weeks came alive and gnawed at her senses. She could hear the fast paced heartbeat as blood was pumped through a large body, the scent of alcohol on its' musky breath. This prey was perfect. Light brown eyes, golden in the light, flickered about her surroundings, and took in a dark alleyway. It was clichéd for a reason—alleyways were perfect for feeing and not being disturbed. Swinging her hips just a little more than usual, Myra made her way to the perfect feeding ground, before leaning casually against the stoned wall.

Moments later, a man rounded the corner. He was overweight, mid 40s and seemed to have a receding hairline. It was also apparent he must be having a midlife crisis with clothes of a 20 year old–Myra shuddered to think—or younger even. Dark jeans tightly encasing legs and an equally tight bright red tee with the name of a band she didn't care to remember. Blinking to clear away the repulsion she managed to catch the last of what the man said,

"...such a great li'l body too. How old are yah, huh? 25," he chuckled to himself, "20? Nah. Nah. You look like a li'l 18 year old'."

Myra smirked, saying nothing verbally.

"Tut, tut love- we must remember manners when dealing wif our elders."

"Elders?" Myra repeated softly, scoffing inwardly.

"Yeah, love- elders, but use teenagers fink you know everthin'. But yah don't. How'd yah like to be wif a _real_ man? Bet yah still got yah cherry ay?"

"You, sir," Myra's sultry voice caused a dazed expression, before closing the distance between herself and him, "talk too much." A smirk crossed his face, and was mirrored by Myra as she placed her mouth close to his. "Don't scream, now," she murmured her golden eyes seemed to become even brighter, for only a moment before he gave a stunted nod.

Myra allowed her lips to close against his throat—felt the slowing pulse of her victim. It was a calming music to her. She didn't dare bite him on the neck, no, that was too medieval. She brought her right hand to his neck, removed her lips and with her sharpened thumbnail made a thin incision. The man whimpered slightly as she closed her mouth against the wound and sucked lightly.

Entering a sense of euphoria Myra imagined sipping at a glass of _Clarice Chardon, 1908_.

That was until a hand closed around her shoulder, roughly yanking her away from her victim. Myra swiped blindly at the intruder as her hunger amplified. Having only had a mouthful of nature's warmth she felt stronger and yet weaker at the same time. Her strength, however, was of no use as she was slammed into the wall as easily as a bird could fly. Myra whimpered, but came to her senses. His face was long and slightly rounded, with a strong jaw. Lips parted slightly as bright grey eyes bored into brown, and a black curl fell onto the centre of his forehead.

"Dear sister, what an honour it is that you have graced us with your presence." Bertrand's voice was deep and lashed at Myra. She winced. Over their first hundred or so years together the siblings had been close. Bertrand was well known for his infectious excitement and stubbornness to get what he wanted, while Myra was addicted to danger. She secretly loved when her older brother came to her protection when she was in over her head. That was until Bertrand began his duty as guardian over the _Praedictum Impaver_ and had begun training so he may tutor the Chosen One when they appeared. It was then, she believed, that they started to drift apart- he to his duty and her to... well, someone else.

"Bertrand," she replied softly, golden eyes downcast; "here I was thinking you were dead."

"Last I checked I've always been dead," he murmured, as his gaze intensified to a spot on her neck. A frown appeared.

"Glad to see you haven't started breathing then—" she spoke hastily but another voice called to the siblings.

"What in the name of garlic is going on here?" Bertrand reluctantly took a step back from his sister, eyes never leaving her neck. Myra immediately looked towards the newcomer. The Chosen One, she realised- if what Fang magazine had said was true. He was taller than her, but shorter than Bertrand by several inches. Myra also noticed how attractive this vampire was—skin pale, and glowing in the dimly lit alley, eyes a crystal blue. With a frown the Chosen One swallowed repetitively, and she realised, he had never tasted the blood of a breather. Said breather was staring blankly forwards. The Chosen One moved towards him, eyes beginning to blacken out as fangs appeared. Myra watched in fascination, as he shook his head and pinched his nose trying to block out the scent of the man's blood. "Get out of here," came the nasally order, "GO!"

The breather suddenly realised he was in a dark alley with two other males, and scampered for his pathetic life, yelling curses at the three as he left. The Chosen One turned to Bertrand, who still had yet to take his eyes from Myra's neck.

"What was that, Bertrand?" he demanded, flitting to Bertrand's side.

The latter merely turned his head a fraction. "What was what, Vlad?"

"The _breather_," Vlad suddenly looked to Myra and frowned wondering how long she had been standing there, "Who are you? I've not seen you around Garside Grange before. Not a lot of visitors come to the school—well unless, they're visitors, or parents."

Myra tilted her head slightly. "So that is where I've ended up," she whispered to herself, before turning to Bertrand, "and where is Garside Grange located, Brother?"

"The United Kingdom."

"Brother?" Vlad shot out incredulously, "Bertrand, you have a sister? You never told me."

"It never came up," he replied finally looking to Vlad. The younger vampire gave Myra a smile, holding out his hand.

"I'm Vlad, well Vladimir Dracula, but everyone calls me Vlad."

"Myra," she looked at the hand and back up at the stranger before gently shaking his hand.

"Nice to meet you, why don't you come back with us—the sun's due to rise in a couple of hours, and by the looks of it you need a place to rest, maybe a change of clothes?" She looked to Bertrand quickly, and then at the ground. The desire to stay close to her brother, to be protected—it was an attractive idea. But she couldn't risk the chance of being caught anywhere near the Chosen One, for her own sake, her brother's as well as for Vlad. It would be stupid. Reckless.

"I…I'm not sure that's a good idea," she replied uncertainly.

"Nonsense, I'm sure Bertrand would love to catch up, and besides, it'd be great to hear what Bertrand was like in his younger… uh, 'years'."

Myra felt a small smile appear. Even after all she'd been through, it was a nice feeling. And yet… "As much as that sounds like a great idea Vlad, I'm afraid I've been in some bad company of late and I wouldn't wish to endanger you or your family."

"All the more reason for you to stay, you'd be protected. Perhaps you can stay until the danger's passed you by. I mean, why not?"

She frowned.

"Listen to the Chosen One," Bertrand said before adding, "Myra."

"Really? That's your way of convincing someone Bertrand, 'listen to him, he's the Chosen One'. I'm not a good incentive, not really. You could offer, uh, a warm coffin, some of Dad's blood wine—" Bertrand raised his eye, and Vlad turned back to a smiling Myra, gulping before continuing. "Uh, that aside, don't you think it's really in your best interest? At least for today, if you still feel like you should leave… then, I won't stop you."

"Fine."

"Fine?" Vlad repeated, and Myra nodded. He smiled, "I'll lead the way."


	3. Chapter Two: These Scars Keep Secrets

_**(Disclaimer- I own nothing but the general storyline and any OCs)**_

**Author's Note:** _So I wasn't quite sure about this chapter, I think it's undergone about five re-types, but I'm quite pleased with the results. The plan was to split the chapter, but no…just, no. A special mention to _Blueberrypie94 _who reviewed the last chapter, your 'awesome' helped to kick me up the butt and continue writing this so "thank you!" _

_Now that that's done, I hand the story over to you—enjoy!_

_(P.S.: Review, yeah? :D) _

_(P.P.S: Don't forget to check my bio to get updates on the status of the story!)_

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><p><em><strong>Drink My Soul<strong>_

**Chapter 2: These Scars Keep Secrets**

"_Children show scars like medals. _

_Lovers use them as secrets to reveal. _

_A scar is what happens when the word is made flesh." _

_–__**Leonard Cohen**_

The sun had only just peaked over the horizon when Vlad led Myra and Bertrand into his home at Garside Grange. Vlad had tried to fill the awkward silence with the story of why they bought the school.

"So according to my dad, Ingrid –my sister—became hungry for revenge and wanted the streets of Stokely to run red with blood. But she left my Dad in the UV cage, and me on the floor. The batteries ran out on the cage, and Dad picked me up, so we left—found a school in the middle of nowhere to escape from an army of slayers trying to kill us, all because I'm the," he turned to face them, waving his arms dramatically, "Chosen One." Myra cracked a small grin as Vlad eased the door open and beckoned to the siblings.

"There's more than just the slayers who want you dead, Vlad," Bertrand reminded stepping in after Myra, "remember that."

Vlad rolled his eyes, and in an overly sarcastic tone replied with, "Oh yes, half the council too—mustn't forget that." Turning away he called, "_Renfield!_" Within moments the shuffling of footsteps was heard and a putrid stench filled Myra's nostrils. She grimaced, placing a finger underneath her nose in the attempt to block it out. But it only became stronger. "You get used to the smell," Vlad pointed out sympathetically, "I mean Bertrand doesn't even react."

"That's because Bertrand's sense of smell is severely lacking," Myra murmured quickly.

"Not lacking, dear Sister, simply ignoring."

"The day I'm able to ignore _that_ is the day I'll walk into the sun and not burn," she retorted skeptically. Vlad gave a snort as the cause of the stink made itself known. Myra resisted the urge to gag as the stench washed over her.

"What is it that I can get for you, young Master?" the man was bald, and dressed in a dirty black and white suit. Teeth were missing and boils present on the slightly yellowed face.

"I need you to set up another coffin alongside Bertrand's," Vlad replied.

Renfield gave a nasally laugh, teeth biting into his bottom lip as he waggled his eyebrows in a suggestive manner. "Are you sure Mister Bertrand would not like to _share _his coffin?"

Vlad paled as Bertrand took a step forwards. "I'm fairly certain my Sister would like a coffin of her own, Renfield."

"Oh, your sister! I see, I'll bring up another coffin right away," Renfield bowed quickly before scuttling away. Myra pulled a face at the insinuation and turned to Bertrand.

"We do _look_ like siblings, do we not?" she asked. He raised an eyebrow in a silent question. "I mean, it wasn't so long ago that people knew in an instant we were related."

"In three hundred years, sister, a lot can change," Bertrand pointed out, taking a seat at the long wooden dining table. Myra spared her surroundings a glance, attempting to ignore the look Vlad was sending her. The décor appeared to take quite a lot from the Elizabethan era in regards to the woods and style, while the fabrics appeared to look more Victorian with thick, dark colours of red, blacks and blues. The table itself sat across from a throne which appeared to look extremely comfortable. She turned to survey the fireplace. Vlad had taken a seat across from Bertrand, observing the two closely. Where Bertrand's hair was curly, Myra's was straight though the ends appeared in a flick, where his face was round, hers was narrow. In fact it was difficult to see very many similarities between the two, unless they were both facing head on. The nose and the shape of the eyes were the same, yet Myra seemed to look considerably younger than Bertrand.

"Hey, uh, Bertrand?"

The grey eyes never stopped looking at his sister, surveying every move without seeming to notice he was doing so. "What is it, Vlad?"

"What's the age difference between you two?" Myra glanced at the two momentarily, humor lighting her features before she turned and walked to sit at the fireplace.

"Two years," Bertrand replied turning to Vlad.

"B-but, how can she look so much younger while you look so much—" he broke off quickly and Myra turned, fully facing them over the back of the sofa, intrigued to see her brother's reaction.

"I've been wondering the same thing," Bertrand noted, ignoring the amused glance Vlad sent Myra. He tilted his head slightly to glance at his younger sibling as she let out a light laugh.

"I never knew you as one who would care about showing their age, Bertrand."

"I'm not, but the fact remains you don't look much older Vlad."

"Keep in mind, you've lived a hectic life, Bertrand- I escaped from all this madness the moment I could."

"Entered madness, more like it," Bertrand murmured shaking his head softly.

"You _do_ know I'm not deaf, right? Nor am I blind," she sent her elder a glare.

Sensing an underlying tension Vlad's survival skill kicked in and he stood, drawing the attention of the older vampires.

"You've obviously got a lot to catch up on, so I'm going to go" –he gestured over his shoulder quickly—"Y'know. To sleep. G'night!" Without so much as an afterthought Vlad left the room as fast as he could, and decided flitting would be the only option to get him to his room quick enough. Silence fell as Vlad's figure shifted away. Myra kept her glare firmly in place golden eyes glowing hotly, while Bertrand merely narrowed his eyes in annoyance.

"Since when did you change your name?" Bertrand spoke slowly, keeping his temper under wraps as best he could. He didn't want to start another fight and push his sister away again. They were above that –she shrugged—at least he had thought they were. Bertrand gave a sigh, as a look of disappointment covered his features as the staring match continued. "I always liked your name."

Myra looked away first; she _always_ looked away even though she never wanted to. It was a classic way to reassert dominance—the first one to break eye contact was usually seen as the weaker. As a female she was _already_ seen as weaker, but when it came to Bertrand, he never broke eye contact, even when (in all technicalities) he should. Myra let out a sound of annoyance; tongue hitting her front teeth and sucking slightly. How could she explain it without endangering herself anymore than possible? Without angering her brother? "My name… it just wasn't… that is to say…" she gave up; she didn't know what was safe to say.

"What's wrong with it? Your name is who you are."

"It's who I _was_ Bertrand," she said hotly, "and I don't want to be that person again. Besides, there were too _many_ names in my name; it was like I was living a split personality..."

"Arabella Charis Jacqueline Myra Fortunessa—how our Mother, Grandmother and Aunt would be so ashamed," Bertrand stood, making his way to Myra. She sat still; knowing to stand would only aggravate him further.

"Bertrand, please—just, drop it."

"No," face hard as stone, Bertrand stood his ground. "Why did you change your name?"

"I told you, I don't want to be," her voice became bitter, "Arabella Charis Jacqueline, I **just** want to be Myra Fortunessa—is that really so damn hard to understand?"

"It is when there is no reason behind why," Myra looked away, "Come now, sister- there was a time we told each other everything."

"Three hundred or so years ago, perhaps," she replied gazing at the fire, "now… I don't know who to trust."

"Why?"

Myra stood, face taught. They were going around in circles, and Bertrand was acting too damn stubborn to take a hint. "You keep on asking 'why' Bertrand! Do you not understand? I don't trust you." Grey eyes bled black, and fangs appeared as he snarled in anger. What had he done to dissuade his sister from trusting him? Three hundred years apart could not have changed her _that _much! He clenched his teeth, ready to tell 'Myra' exactly that—until he noticed a slight glint of fear in the gold eyes which were shiny in unshed tears. His anger fled him as quickly as it came, concern all that was left. He was her brother, the one to protect, and not to harm. He took her shoulders in his hands, holding her there.

Using the childhood nickname Myra had only allowed _him_ to use, "Ara, please—tell me what's happened."

Myra dropped her chin to her chest, body quaking in the effort of trying to keep the tears, the _weakness,_ locked away. "I'm sorry," she whispered. It was her like her mantra- something that she had said so often throughout the years. She felt so _used_, so **dirty**, and it pissed her off. "Bertrand, I…I can't, I ca—"

He pulled her into his chest, enveloping the smaller body in a tight embrace. "Shhh, don't speak then." they stayed like that- until Bertrand began think, beginning to place two and two together.

Over four hundred years ago, Bertrand recalled, Myra had met another Vampire. She had had many suitors over that time—she'd even managed to gain the attention of Vladimir's father, if he remembered correctly. Though Myra was kept entertained by the Count for some time she met someone else—another vampire, Elathin Gothar. One hundred years into his training, Gothar had become one of Bertrand's tutors, though they often did not meet eye to eye. Perhaps it was this which called to Myra, Bertrand didn't know. Of course he'd tried to convince his sister of the worthlessness which Elathin Gothar was—she did not agree. They had argued and fought about her relationship with him, until Bertrand in his anger told her to do whatever it was she pleased and to _never_ call on him for help. Gothar was crude, loud and had no finesse on anything, least of all his hunger for power. Though that was typical in vampire behaviour, Elathin took it all a step too far and angered the Grand High Vampire. It was Bertrand's duty to kill his trainer, and though Myra begged with him to go against it, his duty was one thing he would never attempt to fight. He would do anything to get a job done. Law was law and must be upheld. True to his words, Myra left with the fugitive and never called on Bertrand.

Bertrand was held responsible for the escape of Elathin Gothar, 'the Insane'.

For three hundred years he had found neither word, nor rumour of his sister's whereabouts, and yet here she was—a shadow of her former self. From confident and self assured to this. A vampire filled simply with pent up emotions and fear, someone who apparently, was being tracked down.

"This is all because of him, isn't it?" Bertrand asked, "Because of Gothar?" Though Myra didn't say a word, she froze, and that was all the answer Bertrand needed. He pulled away from Myra, and lowered his head to her neck. Five crescent shaped scars, still a raw red, could be seen. Four went up the length of her neck, and one (the deepest) on the centre as if someone had attempted to choke her with nails. Bertrand knew that Gothar was not one to simply let a 'possession' go. With soft fingers, Bertrand traced the marks. "This is him, isn't it?"

Myra felt the tears from her wide eyes, knew that if she focused on what 'happened' she may never come back. Shoving her arms in front of her, Myra pushed Bertrand away. She clenched her jaw, and turned her back on him. How _dare_ he mark her—the bastard, but of course they would heal…eventually, like all the others. She'd needed it though. Not because she liked physical pain (she shuddered to think of something as juvenile as that) but rather as the final straw in getting to leave the suffocation that was—she struggled for a moment—Elathin Gothar.

"Bertrand, please you shouldn't know all this! Please just forget about it," her voice was soft and she turned slowly to him, "I mean I have." He raised an eyebrow, "Well I want to. I want to forget everything, to just wipe it from my mind as if it never happened."

"You know you can't do that," Bertrand replied and Myra shifted under his gaze. He was right, as always—but it didn't stop her trying. He continued, "Why didn't you come to me sooner?"

"Simple: you told me not to," Myra sat arms encasing her legs, and Bertrand followed.

"You should know that no matter what I was doing I would have helped you."

"Bertrand, we're vampires—we're supposed to be egotistical, power hungry maniacs with a thirst for anything that has a pulse. Why would his behaviour cause a concern to anyone?"

"Because Gothar is insane," he replied simply, and Myra flinched, "because Gothar _should_ be dead."

"Can you _not_ say his name? I have enough trouble thinking it." Bertrand nodded, and they fell silent. Myra struggled with herself to tell her brother what had happened without falling into a pit she could never clamber out of, "I didn't go—I mean I _couldn't_ go to you, because he wouldn't let me."

"That's never stopped you before."

"For fear of my life, it did. And your life—"

"I could've handled it—"

"You said it yourself, he's insane! I couldn't take two steps without him making some threat against me or you. Life with him was…" she shook her head, and Bertrand took his cue from there. He could only imagine what life with that filth would be like—and of course it would have been bad.

"So you allowed yourself to be with him. Did you have a death wish?"

"Look, he wasn't like that all the time Bertrand! He could make my life hell in an instant, yes. But sometimes he'd make me feel like I had the world at my feet, he knew the exact things to do and say to get me to do whatever he wanted."

"So he manipulated you."

"Something else we vampires are good at," she replied, "except I didn't even notice it was happening until I was too scared to leave."

"How long?" she looked at him with a frown, and Bertrand clarified, "How long were you with him feeling like that?"

"The better part of three hundred years," she whispered, before giving a smirk, "All I've done with my life is run in fear. I don't want to be Arabella, but I don't want to change everything about me. I just want a fresh start Bertrand, as Myra. Can you give me that?" Bertrand thought about his answer. The fire crackled over the silent siblings, until he stood.

"It's late, we should sleep."

"Bertrand—" she began, and he cut over her, "I can't promise you anything but time to come to grips…Myra." Her eyes brightened happily- he'd acknowledged her as Myra. It was a step forwards. He continued, "But you'll have to figure out what you're going to say to the Count."

"The Count?" she asked confusedly, but Bertrand said nothing, simply beckoned for her to follow. She stood, gave a lingering look towards the fire before proceeding to follow.

It was after she had lowered herself into the coffin neighbouring Bertrand's that she remembered—Vladimir _Dracula_. Myra wanted to hit her head against something hard, or maybe swallow a piece of garlic.

"Oh, batwings!" she hissed. How could she not have realized sooner?

This was not good. The Count—it was Count Dracula.

Her (as they said these days) Ex.


	4. Chapter Three: Sort it Out Part One

_**Author's Note:**__ So, all-in-all this chapter wasn't the easiest to write, and I needed to seriously consider a few major questions before I could even _contemplate_ writing. In the end I decided to be evil and give you this chapter in two parts (mainly because this first half is intended to focus on two key characters). Second chapter will be up on Monday, because I love you all—and the next chapter (fingers crossed) will be up (as per usual) on Friday._

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><p><em>Special mentions to the following:<em>

**Lilycullen1997**,_ you asked if Vlad will find Erin—all I can say is hang tight and wait to the completion of the story. It will (if it goes according to plan) all come together at the very end, as that is the nature of this story. *Cue evil laughter here*_

"**Cba 2 login"**_ {if I knew your real name this wouldn't feel so strange to type :)} Thanks so much for your complement! I have every intention of sticking with this story until completion so don't you fret, and please...continue reading! As for the mysterious elements they seem to be writing themselves in… quite odd. *calculating expression*_

**ForeverDreamandImagin**_, *overly formal voice* My dear friend you know exactly what to say to have one's ego swelling… or smoldering, one of the two. You're always there to iron out details, so stick around and continue to join in the fun!_

You may begin your reading! Remember, Monday for the next part to this chapter!

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><p><em><strong>Drink My Soul<strong>_

**Chapter 3: Sort it Out (part 1)**

"_History keeps her secrets longer than most of us. _

_But she has one secret that I will reveal to you tonight in the greatest confidence. _

_Sometimes there are no winners at all. _

_And sometimes nobody need lose." –__**John Lecarre**_

Arching her lower back and stretching her arms above her head, Erin gave a slow moan as muscles unknotted. Vlad watched, face flushed red and a goofy smile in place. The smile itself was becoming more common whenever he was around Erin, and one that he couldn't quite shake. If he didn't sort it out soon, Vlad was sure Bertrand would hit him upside the head, not that he hadn't already mind you. Vlad gave a soft chuckle remembering the latest incident. Erin turned to give him a questioning look. Blue eyes narrowed as her brow locked in a light frown.

"What? Do I have something on my face?" Vlad, goofy smile still in place, could only smile wider. "Y'know Vlad, I'm starting to think that each day you get even stranger."

"C'mon Erin, can you blame me? My sister's back with us, my Dad is finally finding something to do with his time, even if it _is_ teaching Wolfie stuff. Not to mention Bertand's sister made an appearance last night, **and** I'm in an amazing relationship with a beautiful girl."

Erin rolled her eyes. "If you were any sweeter…" she broke off with a laugh, then repeated what he had said in her head, something about Bertrand, "Wait—you mentioned something about a sister?"

"Ingrid?"

"No, not—"

"Oh, then Myra."

Erin gave Vlad a pointed look, and the latter shot her an apologetic smile. "And who's Myra?"

"Bertrand's sister. He found her in an alleyway just outside of Garside. They seemed really surprised to see one another... so I invited her to stay with us."

"You mean _another_ vampire?" Erin sighed, "Vlad, it's hard enough keeping _your_ family in the dark about me being human. Don't you think it'd get harder if you add another vampire to the mix?" Erin reached for the bottle of spray, which masked her scent and heartbeat. She shook it, listening to how much was left in the bottle—there was about half remaining…she couldn't keep pretending for much longer. Either Vlad came out to his Dad, or she had to leave. Erin frowned, noting that 'coming out' was probably not the best choice of words, more like 'come clean' or 'explain'. With another sigh of frustration, she began to spray.

Erin couldn't seem to get anything right.

There was the problem of food… she was a vegetarian, and the sight of blood tended to make her feel queasy. Not the bottled sort though, that looked more like tomato juice, Erin thought—though the fresh kind of blood was a whole different matter.

She couldn't kill Ingrid. Couldn't slay a vampire, _technically_… and she was a _slayer_. But of course it came down to the crux of the matter—Erin was dating Vlad.

Vladimir Dracula… a vampire, the Chosen One, named in honour of his father—Count Dracula, Prince of Darkness. No matter what label, or name he was under, Erin was still in the wrong. She threw the bottle into the opened coffin in anger.

"I'm sorry Erin, but she was in danger—I couldn't just let her walk away knowing that. What if she got hurt?" Erin looked over at Vlad having forgotten for a moment he was even there. His brow was lowered in an annoyed frown, the blue eyes hard. He stood, back against the wall, and taught—as if ready to run at any sign of said danger. "She didn't even _want_ to stay with us—something about keeping dangerous company, but that was even more incentive for her to stay. At least this way, whoever's chasing her will think twice before attacking, we offer her protection from the sun _as well_ as the bad people. How could you want to walk away from that?"

Erin was more concerned with something else though. "Bad people?" she queried.

"Y'know," Vlad replied in a singsong manner, "The evil vampires which want nothing more than to kill innocent vampires."

"You make it sound like there _are_ innocent Vampires," Erin shook her head.

"If you know where to look," Vlad cocked his head to the side, "They'll probably be reluctant to bite bunnies."

Erin gave a laugh. "Bunnies? Is this some way of saying that _you're_ innocent?"

"Oh garlic, no! Me, innocent? I shudder to think of what would happen if I were!" Vlad placed his hands over his eyes and tossed his head back in a dramatic pose. "How I would disappoint my dear father!" he paused, "Well… disappoint him _any more._"

"That aside—Do you always need to play the hero?" she gave him a small smile, eyes twinkling in subdued happiness. Even if it was wrong, she couldn't help herself. They had been in their 'unofficial' (technically) relationship for only a couple of weeks. But they were the happiest of her life. Vlad had showered her with his attention and playful banter in the moments they had alone. But Erin had seen the way Bertrand and the Count had begun to look at her, with a growing anger in their eyes.

Well, anger with Bertrand, frustration with the Count. Erin could tell that the Count wanted Vlad to find a nice 'full-fanged' vampire for him to sink his teeth into, and after the 'Erin-almost-being-thrown-into-a-giant-firey-pit-so-as-to-humour-a-bunch-of-snarky-vampires' she had tried to avoid the Dracula Head of House as much as humanly possible. But it didn't stop the other part of her—the part that despised Vampires for having ruined her life and that of her brother's. If anything, the relationship with Vlad was the ice, attempting to stop the swelling of an injury that was so twisted, she wasn't sure it could be helped. Sometimes Erin would struggle just to look at Vlad without feeling guilty, other times it was guilt over allowing herself to get too close and _other_ times…

"I don't mean to be a hero, Erin—but I can't allow someone to just walk into danger." Erin raised an eyebrow at his statement… couldn't he see _her_? Vlad had allowed Erin to not only 'walk' into danger, but to run at it with open arms, practically naked. She grimaced slightly at the mental image, before shaking her head to clear it entirely. Vlad rolled his eyes and walked forwards, with a lopsided grin. "Oh, you know what I mean—it was _you_ whom walked into this danger."

"So you're saying I should be grateful that you're playing the hero, then?" Vlad placed his hands on her hips, as Erin wrapped her arms around his neck slowly but narrowing her eyes all the same.

"Well, since you put it that way. My ego could always use a boost, and if you're offering me your gratefulness, I'd be more than happy to accept."

The two laughed, before Vlad abruptly came to his senses. Drinking Erin in, the warmth of her body against his, the slender curve of her neck, not yet hidden by a scarf. Vlad felt an urge to hold Erin against him, and to never let her go. He felt a certain hunger, one that didn't stem from his stomach, and lost himself entirely trying to figure out _what_ the hunger meant. Erin watched Vlad, with a small smile. That was until the blue eyes she was slowly getting used, bleed black.

This just proved her internal battle, other times Erin was in constant fear that _this_ would happen—Vlad was, after all, a vampire. Stupidly, Erin had to remind herself of that everyday… he was so sweet; it was easy to forget herself and fall in sync with whatever he felt at the time. In panic, she pushed Vlad away. "Y-you have training, right now, d-don't you?" the question melded in with itself, words mashing into one another causing her to stutter.

Vlad blinked slowly, not catching her words, but instantly missing the loss of warmth. He shook his head in the attempts to clear it. "What just happened?"

Erin immediately had her guard up and hissed, "You attempted to feed on me, that's what!" Vlad shook his head, but she continued. "Don't you shake your head! I've seen Bertrand, the Count and Ingrid enough times to know that when your eyes go black… **bad** stuff happens."

"Erin, I didn't feel the need to feed," he replied softly, pleadingly almost, "I just felt… something else." Erin frowned, before moving to tie the scarf around her neck, fumbling in her haste. Vlad felt his chest constrict in sadness.

"You should go. Bertrand will be mad that you're late. I have some stuff I need to sort out."

"'Stuff'," he echoed, "got it."

Vlad tipped his head slightly, before making his way out of her room, and towards the dining room—trying to decipher his feelings. When he heard Bertrand's voice, soft and panicky. It was strange enough to snap Vlad out of his stupor. Bertrand was always a statue—never showing any more emotion than strictly necessary. Vlad thought, perhaps Bertrand wanted something from Myra, but it didn't explain the panic. He made a mental note to figure out what had happened between him and Erin later, for now he had more important things to do. Vlad flitted towards the room, but paused as he listened to what was happening—just incase he was interrupting a 'heart-to-heart' moment between the siblings. He shuddered to think what would happen if _that_ were the case. Last night, he felt the storm of emotions between the two of them as easily as if he were watching it on TV.

"Myra—open your eyes," Bertrand repeated the line twice more, each time growing in frustration. Vlad heard Myra's voice only once during the altercation muttering something along the lines of,

"Need to escape… have to get out of here."

Vlad tapped on the door once, "Bertrand! It's Vlad…"

The door swung open to show an irate Bertrand. Brow furrowed and lips pursed in agitation. "I know—for the first time that I'm late, but this can't be helped." He took a step to the side, allowing the younger vampire in. "I can't seem to wake her up," he muttered, "Perhaps you can…" Bertrand seemed to struggle slightly with saying the word. Part of Vlad felt he should allow Bertrand to suffer, just for a little bit longer, but Myra didn't deserve that.

Besides, Vlad understood what he meant.

"It's alright Bertrand, I'll help you," Bertrand flinched but nodded his head in acknowledgement before returning to the opened coffin of which was encasing Myra. Vlad asked, "So what's happened? Why can't you wake her up?"

"I'm not certain. I was going to wake her and offer her something to drink since she hardly had a drop last night," Vlad flinched, realizing the bleeding breather had been Myra's doing not Bertrand's like he originally thought, but he pushed passed the distaste and attempted to focus on Bertrand, "…so I knocked on her coffin, when she didn't reply, I opened it only to find her like this. She's in the dream world, I know of it—but she must be in danger, I've been trying to wake her for the past hour. Usually Myra is a light sleeper, the softest sound tends to wake her up…but this?" Bertrand shook his head, "I'm at a loss."

Vlad lent over the coffin to see Myra, a light sheen of sweat covering her. Eyes moving rapidly under the closed eyelids, as her raspy breath met his ears. He noticed a soft red shape against her neck and moved forwards to inspect it. But that was when the whole of her neck exploded in paler white, as if a hand had grabbed her, and Myra's breathing choked to a halt. Vlad panicked, "Myra!"

Grabbing her shoulder, Vlad shook it violently, but received no response. Bertrand, joined in with Vlad—both in the attempts to cause enough of a sound in the hopes of waking her. The ground beneath Vlad's feet reverberated, and the young vampires froze. Vlad heard his father give a deafening shout. The Count _despised_ being awoken, especially if it led to trouble first thing in the morning and he hadn't had his morning cup of blood. Knowing this (having experienced the wrath first hand, and not wanting a repeat experience) Bertrand moved to stand at the door, in the attempt to block access to the room, but the Count arrived before he could. Bertrand, subdued and frustrated lent against the wall—making eye contact only with the floor.

"What in the name of holy water is going on here?" the glare was directed at Bertrand until they moved about the room where his eyes connected to Vlad. In a second, the Count went from anger to eagerness. "Oh, my little Vlady, you've finally done it!" He clapped Bertrand on the shoulder, though the latter did not react, "Did Bertrand find you this little Vampiric minx or did you use the good old Dracula charm—" as he spoke he moved towards to coffin, where Vlad glanced worriedly between his father and Myra, "—you take after me a lot Vlady, the high cheek bones, the—" the Count stopped in his tracks as he looked down at Myra, recognizing her instantly. Falling from his face; the eager grin was changed into a shocked expression. "It can't be…"

His hand extended forwards, slowly.

Surely, this had to be a trick.

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><p><em><strong>Please, don't forget to leave a review and tell me what you think :)<strong>_


	5. Chapter Three: Sort it Out Part Two

_**Disclamer: As always, I own only the OCs, not even 'hyper-suasion' is mine, but I wish it was…**_

**Author's Note:**_ Part Two of Chapter Three, for your eager eyes to enjoy where Wolfie makes his debut! What are you waiting for? Crack on!_

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><p><strong>Drink My Soul<strong>

**Chapter 3: Sort it Out (Part Two)**

_Myra had been walking down the same corridor for an unholy amount of time, after something that would be through a door somewhere at the end. Except, she didn't know what it was. So she walked, bare feet slapping against the stone floors, chilling her slightly. Myra didn't run, because running was pointless—wherever she was in the dream world, the door didn't seem urgent, just… important. The only problem, however, was that the corridor she was walking down didn't show any signs of her moving. In fact, the door which she had seen momentarily, appeared to becoming smaller, like she'd been walking backwards instead of forwards. Myra swallowed her urge to panic—she was missing something. She wouldn't be able to get to the door unless she figured out that 'something' was._

"_Arabella," a smooth tenor voice rung out. It was the tone one might imagine would be used to sooth a panicky child. A shiver ran down her spine as the figure appeared, seemingly out of nowhere and began to walk towards her. She needed to escape. She had to get out of here. She pinched her arm in the attempt to wake up. Nothing happened. "There you are Arabella, I've been looking everywhere for you."_

_Myra's muscles tightened in the attempted to take a step back and run for it, but she wasn't able to move. It was as if she were stuck to the floor. The man stopped a meter from where she stood, a slow smile appearing. He was tall and lean, with lanky limbs. The hair was a thick blonde and dead straight framing harsh features. The hazel eyes narrowed. "It's ever so rude of you to be ignoring your lover, Arabella."_

_She swallowed hastily. "I haven't been _that_ in a long time, Gothar."_

_With a slow, laborious shake of his head he stepped into her personal space. Easily towering over her smaller figure. Elathin gave a cruel sneer. "You've been nothing but trouble for over three hundred years," he cupped her cheek with his right hand, a euphoria growing as the fear glinted in Myra's golden eyes, "that's a long time, my darling. You've yet to prove your worth." The hand slipped to her neck and Myra halted her breathing at once. Panic took over as he caressed the scars on the neck. "Have you found that pathetic excuse you call 'brother' yet?"_

_Myra screwed her eyes shut. This couldn't be happening. The hand began to squeeze at the slim neck slowly. Myra choked. "Perhaps you didn't hear me _Darling_, I asked if you had found your brother."_

_Myra opened her mouth, but couldn't form any words, even if she had wanted to. Elathin tightened his grip in anger, watching as those infuriating eyes glossed with tears and the full lips gasped for air. He tossed her to the side with ease. Myra's head collided with the stone as she slid to the floor—she'd just wanted to escape. To get away from this… this…_

"_You didn't think your escape was of your own accord, did you Arabella? Or should I call you _Myra._ Such a horrid name by the way… I shudder to be associated with anyone quite so simple—but I must. We all have things, which we dislike about people, and yet must push past so as to continue with our destiny. Your destiny, to be by my side for eternity." Myra was shocked. The escape from Gothar's estate had been difficult, ridiculously so. She had to avoid the sun, but in a country that was known for its' heat and vast plains filled with sand dunes, she had very nearly burnt to a crisp trying to make it out of Australia. Her shelter being in deserts littered with thin gum trees. But in the end, her effort was futile, as it always seemed to be with Gothar—Myra couldn't even shake her past enough to get rid of this man. Couldn't he take a hint? If she were so simple, surely his fascination to her must be waning by now._

"_Mon-ster," came the gasp from the smaller vampire. Myra attempted to force herself into a sitting position without her head feeling like it would implode. Gothar's eyes shimmered for a moment._

"_Darling, we are much past the time for flattery. Though it does not go unnoted. Now," he placed his hands against Myra's bent knees. Thumbs rubbing her thighs lightly, "Must I repeat myself a third time, Arabella?" Myra swallowed uneasily as the pain in her throat intensified—she looked to the side, away from his gaze. She wanted to tell Gothar, in the hopes that perhaps he would leave her alone, or at the very least allow her to live with him in peace. But there was an afterthought, small though it was, which sparked within her—Bertrand was her brother, and in a culture where family is everything Myra realized that even if she wanted to escape from this monster, she wouldn't do it if it jeopardized Bertrand. The hands lightly slapped her knees, brining her eyes instantaneously to connect to his. He flashed a broad smile, "I see you have found him then, perfect!" Myra's eyes bulged slightly as he gave a short triumphant laugh, how in the stake had he known? "Now, now Arabella I can read you like a book. But more importantly—the Chosen One?" Gothar continued, eagerly, "Is he there as well?" But that was when Myra felt a soft stroke against her cheek, and she closed her eyes basking the tenderness of which Gothar had never shown her._

When she finally opened her eyes Elathin was gone, but a cold hand still lightly stroked her cheek. Her eyes fluttered for a moment, wanting nothing more than to return to blissful darkness, preferably not the nightmare that Gothar was. Myra frowned, and opened her eyes deciding that falling asleep again was not a good idea. Her eyes followed an arm, which was directly in her vision clad in a velvet red sleeve. Travelling up the seemingly endless length gold eyes connected with warm grey, which hardened instantly as they realised saw Myra was awake. She could only lay there, staring at the face of Count Vladimir Dracula, Prince of Darkness. Myra's heart would have skipped a beat were it beating in the first place. He had aged considerably since their last encounter, but during that time he had not become unattractive. His features were that of a roman aristocrat, solid and angled. Cheek bones high and sharp enough to cut glass, eyes of a chilling grey. Myra felt herself drawn into his gaze, but instead of warmth she felt the anger, and the disgust rolling off of the Count in waves. His hand snapped back to his body as if Myra were a poison. But Vlad's figure made itself known and the Count was shoved out of the way. An abruptly annoyed expression formed on the Count's face, and Myra couldn't help a small smirk that formed.

"Myra, you're awake?" he turned slightly, "Bertrand she's—" Bertrand's head appeared, and she couldn't help but chuckle. Bertrand brushed his fingers along her forehead.

"You had me worried," Bertrand murmured.

"I tend to do that," Myra replied softly, before sitting up and swallowing. She could still feel Gothar's hand around her throat—the phantom hand, she decided to call it—and attempted to repress a shudder. Her eyes locked with Bertrand. "What's the matter?"

Bertrand looked off to the side, and it was Vlad who replied, "He couldn't wake you up… nor could I, and _I'm_ the Chosen One."

"The more you say that, the more I want to vomit," came a low voice. The people in the room (aside from the Count, Myra noted) turned at once to look at the new comer. She had softer features than the Count, but the eyes were remarkably the same, but colder and harder. Dressed head to toe in a sort of faux leather; the offset to her pale skin was astounding. "Who," the female voice lowered, attempting to intimidate, "are you?"

Myra was no newcomer to intimidation. In a world ruled by males, the women tended to appear softer and weaker—but when confronted with each other, it became a world fuelled with ego, attitude and false politeness. A world, Myra noted with annoyance, this young woman had never experienced. Confrontation was the first 'no' in a woman's battle, at least not the way in which this one approached it. A woman's confrontation was done by innuendo, to attempt to make the other feel smaller, or in Myra's case just to let them know she was no push over.

"I was under the impression that for my name to be given one must give their own. Is that not the way an introduction typically plays out?"

The girl's mouth twitched in annoyance, whilst the Count's eyes sparked in humor. Vlad made to stand, but Bertrand halted him with the shake of his head.

"But this isn't typical, is it? Waking up to a bunch of men surrounding your coffin. I would've thought this would be an extreme circumstance."

"I don't see what's so unusual about it," Myra shrugged, "One is my brother, one is—I assume—your own, while the last is your father—Count Dracula, Prince of Darkness I believe. That would make you Ingrid, and had you listened before entering you would know my name is Myra."

Vlad snorted, as Ingrid fully entered the room, face taught. "You have some nerve," she growled. Myra, unfazed just sat in her coffin. "I am Queen here, not. You."

The Count gave a breathless laugh, which was joined by Bertrand. Ingrid seemed even more determined now, to make Myra seem as small as possible. And Myra understood immediately. Ingrid was after a shift of power, from a male dominated race to equality of females. Not all, perhaps, but simply to allow herself power that as an elder sibling, Ingrid believed was rightfully hers. Whether she intended on getting there through brute force, or silly games, Ingrid didn't care—like all vampires she was power hungry. Myra sympathized, but knew her lot in life…especially if _he_ had anything to say about it.

Myra's eyes bored into Ingrid's, intent on getting across what she had to say. "I wouldn't dream of becoming Queen, Ingrid. That job is for someone with more aspirations than I. I do however believe in etiquette of which you seem to have none."

Ingrid blinked, and stood upright. Turning on her heel, she left without so much of a backward glance. Vlad half stood, half crouched frozen in a look of confusion. The Count, though stoic and unmoving seemed just as put off as his son. Bertrand turned to his sister and gave soft smile.

"That's one argument avoided," he remarked casually.

"I just wanted to let her know I wasn't going to 'take over' and that she needed to show some manners if she wants to get anywhere."

Bertrand stood. "Did you really have to encourage her? You know—"

Myra glared at her brother. "There are no laws written, Bertrand, nor told that say she's not allowed strive to achieve her goals. Even if there are, it's not my place to say so."

With a sigh Bertrand conceded and offered his hand to help her out of the coffin. Still in the mini black dress (minus the boots), Myra kept one hand on the end of the dress so the material would not rise too high as she stepped over and out. Vlad finally found his voice, as well as the rest of his body. He stood upright, shrugged out of his jacket and offered it to Myra, who gladly accepted. "What was that?" he asked, and it was the Count that answered.

"Hyper-suasion, Vlady… one I did not know a Vampire could possess." He sent Myra a pointed glare.

"Hyper-what now?"

The Count sighed. "Did you not pay _any_ attention to your study before the blood test?"

"I was a bit preoccupied with trying to get out of becoming a Vampire," he responded and the Count growled in annoyance. Myra looked at Bertrand, raising an eyebrow. The latter rolled his eyes, implying that this sort of thing happened more often then not. "So," Vlad continued, "what is hyper…um…what he said."

"Hyper-_suasion_," Bertrand recited, "is the ability to convince anybody to do practically anything merely by the sound of one's voice."

"Like hypnotism?" he asked, Bertrand gave a nod.

"More or less. Hypnotism is forcing your way into the subconscious mind and directing people into doing an activity, making them believe that whatever it is you want them to do was a decision that they reached on their own. Hyper-suasion on the other hand is an ability much harder to control, as it is all about the voice and 'convincing' rather than 'influencing'. It's a rare gift, but is often confused with hypnotism. For example, Myra needs constant eye contact with the person she wishes to persuade, something hypnotism requires, however there has to be 'reason' behind what it is she wants her subject to do. While hypnotizing you could make Renfeild think he's a chicken," Vlad snickered at the idea, "but with hyper-suasion Myra must produce a reason behind 'why' Renfeild should_ behave_ like a chicken."

Vlad stared at Bertrand, whilst processing the information. Where he could make someone do something, Myra had to convince—it seemed like such an innocent power. He frowned, unless she used it to convinced breathers to become her bait…that would be sadistic.

"Can you hypnotize people, Myra?" he asked thoughtfully.

Shocked, Myra gave a nod. "I don't see how one impedes on the other. They are similar powers, yes…but not the same. All vampires have the ability to hypnotize, why would I be any different? I'm simply more proficient at convincing people to do things… though I tend to use the ability less and less as I move on in life." Suddenly she gave a low moan, pitching forwards. Bertrand had to use both hands to steady her—

"Myra!" With a slight shake, Myra raised her head weakly to look at Bertrand.

"Blood…" she murmured before falling against her brother.

Bertrand looked to Vlad. "On it," he flittered away.

The Count needed to be rid of Arabella, no matter the cost. He could not afford to remember his past with Vlad so close to opening the _Praedictum Impaver_ took a step forwards, opening his mouth. "You realize, Bertrand, that since your sister and I have…unfinished business between us—it puts Vlad into a rather precarious position, I shudder to—" Bertrand sent the Count his blank stare and the Count stopped.

Vlad returned suddenly, with a glass filled with blood, and a bottle as well. Bertrand took the glass tipping the substance into Myra's mouth. Opening her eyes Myra's eyes began to fade to a black as her fangs became more prominent.

"Stop worrying so much, Bertrand," she whispered with a smirk, "you're going to get wrinkles. Besides, don't you have training to do?" Bertrand gave Myra a pointed stare, before allowing her to lean against her coffin and handing the bottle of blood Vlad had brought, to her.

"Come, Vladimir—Myra's right," Vlad frowned at Bertrand.

"Wait, isn't she using hyper—" Bertrand raised an eyebrow and Vlad changed track, "Uh, training…right. Are we in the dungeon today?" and followed Bertrand out, sending his father a pointed glare.

The Count raised is hands, shooing Vlad out the room, before turning to Arabella—Myra, he admonished—it would take a while to get used to that. But he had been telling Bertrand the truth; the two had unresolved issues. More so himself than Myra. He had allowed himself to _feel_, to be enraptured by the demon sitting before him practically drowning in the bottle of blood. To be honest (which the Count only ever did if there was a benefit out of it) Myra had crushed the last 'good' out of him. Which, in essence was a good thing—merely annoying because he had not done it on his own terms. The Count liked it when he could control everything, liked it even more when he had to _try_ to control everything. A challenge was always appreciated.

"Vladimir," the Count froze. Struggling to remember air had to be suctioned in through his nose and released through his mouth, not just taken in to remain there. Count Dracula had forgone the use of his first name after Vlad was born, even before then… it would have been after Myra—he growled, refusing to relive that.

"It is _Count_ Dracula," the words were forced out from between pursed lips. Myra, half on the euphoria of a contented stomach, stood facing him with a small smile. The Count could smell the left over blood, but having sated himself heavily the last day, restrained (though barely) the urge to ravish—he paused, not liking where his mind was wandering. Worried that he might like it _too_ much.

"Since when did you become so particular about what I called you?"

There was a pause as the Count felt a wave of anger wash over him.

"If only Gothar could see you now?" was the counter. Myra flinched at the use of _his_ name, and swallowed roughly before continuing.

"You don't need to be so difficult Vladimi—" the Count narrowed his eyes and Myra corrected herself, "Sorry, _Count_."

"You're right, I don't _need_ to be, I _choose_ to be."

Myra clenched her fists together in agitation. "We're going around in circles here," she murmured, "all last night I ran through what I was going to say when I confronted you. None of the scenarios turned out like this."

"That teaches you a lesson, then doesn't it?" the Count stepped closer eyes smirk in place.

"What?"

"Don't try and control what is uncontrollable," he whispered leaning down to whisper in her ear, "Arabella Charis Jacqueline, or should I call you _**Myra**_—what an honour it is…" his voice softened further, "to kick you out."

Myra's temper got the better of her. "You always seem to fathom that you are in fact, _uncontrollable_, when in truth you hide from that you cannot control. Your poor intimidation does nothing but prove why it is I left you. Besides, your son invited me—I think it's only fair to the Chosen One I stay until I am no longer wanted."

The Count yanked himself away from her, fangs bared as he hissed. Myra mimed the action. "If it is intimidation that you are after, perhaps Gothar would like to visit." Myra paled and the Count, believing himself triumphant sneered. "Poor, little Arabella… the weak woman trying to find a place in a man's world, relying on her dear older brother for protection."

_SMACK!_ The Count's face was tossed to the side as his body moved in the same direction. With wide eyes and a gaping mouth, Count Dracula froze, trying to comprehend what just happened. Myra, the smaller vampire stood her ground. And when the Count turned back to face her, his cheek was already a shining red. Her palm tingled as a light sting prickled.

Her eyes flashed as they bored into his. "You may infuriate _me_ with your words, **Count**, even when you do not understand the circumstances surrounding a situation. But _never_ bring my brother into a conversation that does not involve him," her articulation was perfect though slightly exaggerated, syllables emphasized, and punctuation shortened. She pointed to his cheek, and vehemently declared, "You deserved that."

A spark lit in the Count's eyes, as he raised a hand to touch his cheek. Rising to his full height, he turned from her—emotions in a turmoil, not quite sure how he felt. The Count gnawed at his bottom lip for a moment, before murmuring on his next breath, "I have missed your company."

Myra had expected to be struck in retaliation, thrown out head first, or at the very least walked out on in one of the Count's infamous (even three hundred years ago) tempers. Never would she expect the Count to have, 'missed' her. Myra's temper fled her, as she stood uncertain of what to do, but needing confirmation.

"What did you say?" she asked hesitantly.

The Count, turned his head fractionally in her direction. "You heard me…" he paused, and took a breath as if he were to continue but thought better of it. Clapping his hands his mood changed suddenly, "Right then, uh, I'm going to my Coffin. Good day," and left.

Myra watched the Count flitter away, and frowned, thoroughly confused. Picking up the empty bottle and glass, she made her way out of the room only to be knocked over by a bombarding force. As Myra fell to the floor, a small boy landing on top of her she heard Ingrid's voice ring out—"COME BACK WITH THAT, YOU MUTT!"

In his hands was a rabbit, trying to get free. The boy's innocent eyes bored into Myra's and she heard, "Don't let her find me, Miss, please…she'll skin me and Robert and use our fur as a coat."

"Robert?" she queried, the boy looked at the rabbit.

"He's a bunny I found—please, you won't let her hurt us, will you?"

She let her head fall against the stone with a subdued _thump_. Why couldn't the Dracula's be more—she glanced at the small boy again—'Vampiric'?

"I suppose I'll have to."

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><p><em><strong>Don't worry more Ingrid next chapter! Show this story some love and review, please...<strong>_


	6. Chapter Four: Shock Realisations

_**Disclaimer: Young Dracula is owned by people who own it, which just happens to **__not__** be me. The OC's however... yeah—I own 'em!**_

**Author's Note: **_**As much as I'd love to make some witty remark—I ask only that you read next chapters' AN. **_

_**Please and thank you!**_

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><p><strong>Drink My Soul<strong>

**Chapter Four: Shock Realisations**

"_Future shock [is] the shattering stress and disorientation _

_That we induce in individuals by subjecting them to _

_Too much change in too short a time." –__**Alvin Toffler**_

It was at midday a week later, when Myra realised she'd made a mistake. Actually it had been at seven in the morning when Myra first noticed, but had taken her until midday to actually react. She had been given breather clothes earlier in the week which Vladimir had 'lying around' that fit her—though barely. And although Myra had been fairly suspicious of the fact that Vlad had _female_ clothes, she said nothing: he was her host, so she had to be polite. Besides, she'd already decided that when near the Draculas you couldn't expect them to be the most 'normal' vampires around. Myra had been given a pair of jeans, which were of a light grey and fairly tight, and a firm fitting black top—but anything was better than that stupid dress. She had said her thanks (however reluctantly) to Vlad before returning to her and Bertrand's coffin room where she had remained for roughly the full week. There, on the stone floor, sat her mistake. Black hair, brown eyes, with a musky scent surrounding him, and a brown bunny in his hands. The mistake had a name too: Wolfie. On any other day Myra would've never admitted to this mistake, in fact it was one of the only things vampiric women were expected to do—ignore their faults...but _this_ was too much even for her. The mutt, as Myra started to call the boy, had refused to leave her alone after she had ushered Wolfie from Ingrid's brooding gloom.

"Myra, I'm bored, can we go play?" she said nothing. Currently lying in her coffin with the vampiric paper above her face, she was reading the same sentence for what had to be the twentieth time. "Please, Myra? I promise I'll be quiet afterwards! Please? I swear it on my tail! No—wait I like that too much… uh, I swear it on my—" A muscle near her nose twitched and she read the line again—_Mistress Nikola displayed surprise when the state-of-the-art UV protector arrived, but stated—_when, somewhere near her ear Wolfie's voice sounded, "Myyyyyyyyrrrrrrraaaaaaaaaaaa!"

In one move, she closed the paper and grabbed the mutt by the ear—he whimpered.

"If I don't get to read what Nikola did to warrant such a prize I will personally give Robert _and_ yourself a haircut. Understood?"

"B-but I'm bored," he whispered. Something in the boy's eyes pulled at Myra. She sighed and let him go, allowing her head fall to the silk lined pillow of her coffin. _Her_ coffin, she thought smugly, she could definitely get used to this.

"Where's your bunny?" her voice was tinged with slight desperation. Myra was tired, and hungry, it had been a week since she'd eaten…but more than that, she was irritated. All she wanted was peace—to sleep, and feed when she wanted. She had only seen fleeting glances of her brother, Vlad was even more scare and as for the Count? Well...from all Myra saw the Count was seldom around, not that Myra had had the desire to leave her coffin. Wolfie persisted, however—but _silence._ Was that too much to ask for? From a small boy? Apparently so.

"I dunno," was the nonchalant reply.

She sat up in a flash staring at the boy. "You don't know, or you don't care?"

"He was boring, so I let him go," she let her eyes slide shut and tried to calm her breathing. Rage was one thing that a child never warranted, but her temper had never really been the best and she found children to be bothersome. This was why. So innocent and pure, hanging off of every word spoken—for Myra it was like rubbing salt into a wound. She had to be careful not to stare into a child's eyes when she spoke for fear of manipulating their thoughts. Any child younger than seven was at risk—easy to dictate what to believe was true. It was difficult enough when she was around Vampires, to not force them into believing anything she wanted, but it gave Myra a unique ability to survive in all odds. Others either wanted to study her or use her abilities—for a while she didn't have to worry about what she said because it never worked on _him_ and _he_ protected her from others. She'd grown weak in that time.

Myra stared at the ceiling, as if it had the answers.

"If you let him go," Myra began softly, watching as a tarantula spun its' web above her head, "I see no reason why I should help you any longer."

"But you _promised_!"

She gave a sigh, and rose out of the coffin. Wolfie moved back slightly, to allow her to step out. There was just something about him, the desire to prove himself even against all odds—it was as much endearing as it was annoying. Sometimes it was better to run away against the odds and come back to fight at another time. Myra gazed into the boy's eyes, deep enough so that he knew she was serious but shallow enough to not try and influence him in any way. "No, Wolfie," was the soft reply, "I said that I would 'protect' both yourself and Robert—I made no promises for anything more or less… but for an entire week I have kept my _word_."

Wolfie frowned, not quite understanding. Words and promises and looks and actions, they were all the same to vampires. They said one thing and did another. It was a game of which Wolfie didn't know how to play, or one that he liked. "Isn't it the same?" he refuted.

Myra moved the tip of her tongue along her bottom lip, taking the dryness away before relaying her answer. "The differences may be...difficult for you to understand at such a young age—"

Cutting across her Wolfie demanded, "Tell me."

Mildly shocked at the outburst Myra's eyes locked with the hard grey and responded, "Although subtle, a promise gives the premise of a goal which one relies upon and can easily be broken. A word is... less significant."

Wolfie stared. Myra stared back, not sure if the small boy understood. There was a pause.

"Can we play, now?"

Myra blinked. "Uh...I'm sorry?"

"Well I got you out of your coffin, so you're not reading anymore—" and so on he went, barely giving Myra the time to deal with the sudden shift of not only attention but mood as well. The young half breed either had an attention problem or was just like all other little werewolf and vampiric boys—manipulating. One thing for certain was that he did not like things to get too serious, something many Vampires admired in werewolves. Their attention span allowed for the slight manipulation by Vampires, to get whatever they wanted. Myra shuddered at the thought of courting a werewolf; it was too foreign for her and they came with too much… hair. Wolfie had led Myra down the hall by the time she realised she was even moving. Suddenly Wolfie froze, and Myra looked up at Ingrid. Dressed in a red silken blouse and tight black jeans with dark boots she made for a menacing figure.

"Is the little mutt bothering you?" Bearing his teeth at her, Ingrid gave a light chuckle. "Pathetic," and bared her fangs. Standing erect, Wolfie dropped Myra's hand and fled in the direction they'd just come from. Where was she when Myra needed her most? Turning to Ingrid with open confusion she queried,

"Does he suffer from any," Myra made a vague gesture, "mental problems?"

Ingrid barely paused at the question. "If he does, it's the same one my father suffers from."

Myra cracked a grin, and Ingrid responded in kind. "Sudden mood shifts—I suppose the Count hasn't really changed?"

"That's not the half of it," Ingrid gestured behind her, "I know that the pathetic excuse for a Chosen One wouldn't have offered, nor your brother or my father for that matter—but would you care for a drink?"

Myra wasn't sure if this was another ploy of Ingrid's to reassert her dominance. Ingrid's eyes narrowed slightly, connecting with Myra's honey-toned brown. The latter paused only for a moment, before noting that Ingrid's posture had relaxed slightly—becoming less confrontational.

"That would be nice, thank you," Myra inclined her head, and matched Ingrid's pace, before voicing her observation, "At least I know you have manners locked away somewhere, that gesture was almost welcoming."

Ingrid remained silent as they walked as if contemplating a retort. Her boots clacking against wood and the soft thud of Myra's bare feet the only sounds for a short time. It was only after Myra had made herself comfortable on the velvet sofa; a leg propped casually on the other end and was sipping contentedly from a goblet of blood wine when Ingrid replied.

"You were a threat," she said, "I reacted the way any vampire would have."

Seated opposite Myra, the latter paused to admire the eyes that were so much like Ingrid's father. The levels of emotions (which they liked to believe weren't there) was for Myra, like reading a book. So many conflictions, which were so obvious to her; there was pain and depression mixed with an overflowing anger—she could relate to Ingrid, to some degree. It conflicted with Myra's first interpretation of the ill-tempered girl, and yet confirmed it at the same time.

"If I may make a critique?" Myra asked, Ingrid stiffened and narrowed her eyes—hostility making itself known. Myra pushed on because Ingrid needed to hear it. "Perhaps pushing for a confrontation from every vampire that enters your," she made air quotations, "'halls' isn't such a good idea."

"In your opinion—"

"Yes, my opinion. Think on it, Ingrid, for it is a valid one. I have been around for more than three hundred years and yet upon my arrival I have met conflict upon conflict," her mind flickered towards Gothar for a moment and she couldn't help the pained laugh that escaped her lips. Gothar had made no further attempts of communication through her dreams, though Myra did try to not fall asleep for fear of what _could_. "Imagine if the next female vampire you insult is not as understanding as myself, and is much more ill-tempered. In two words she could tear you apart."

Ingrid bared her fangs menacingly. "Bring. Them. On."

Myra rolled her eyes as sarcasm entered her tone. "Yes because you're ever so frightening. A mere eighteen-year-old girl against a four hundred year old who more than likely has the influence of their clan leader—whatever will they do? Perhaps, bear their fangs? Or even better, call forth their leader. It was a critique, Ingrid, not a threat." Ingrid looked thoroughly embarrassed as Myra shook her head, "You know that's one thing I don't understand about our culture?"

Ingrid glowered. "And what's that?"

"Why bear the fangs?" she asked simply and Ingrid frowned. "Think about it—it's the only reaction we have and it's the same one. I mean I'm not saying I don't do it, but in hindsight it does seem rather pointless. Is it possibly saying, 'Quake in fear as it is my fangs which are pointier and cleaner than yours!'"

Ingrid cracked a small smile. "I suppose it _does_ seem pointless, though no less fun to do."

Myra nodded. "Oh yes, never get between a vampire and their fangs—we bite."

As if to prove a point, but totally unaware of who was watching them, Myra and Ingrid gnashed their teeth at each other before succumbing to peals of laughter. From her vantage point behind the door, far enough away from Ingrid and the stranger to not attract their attention—Erin walked in on 'Myra's' last statement. She was still flustered by Vlad's lack of understanding (she was a _breather_, all Vamps except him want to _bite_ her…why couldn't he just **get it**?) and the lack of stasis spray, Erin was surrounded by trouble wherever she went. Her week had been turbulent at best. More confrontation between Erin and Bertrand, not even a glimmer of an apology from Vlad. Erin had barely moved about the manor, aside from going to classes. So, she hadn't _meant_ to walk in on Ingrid and Myra, but was glad she had found out what sort of vampire this new one was—which was the same as any, really: Bloodthirsty. Erin hadn't really been expecting any less. But there was another thing, how in the name of stakes and garlic had Bertrand's sister made Ingrid laugh? What was so funny about biting people? Then again, thought Erin, they _were_ soulless and evil—so she really couldn't expect anything less.

Ingrid looked up, and the second she realised Erin was there lost all traces of humour.

"Half-fang, not attached to my brother I see," the remark was not unkind in tone though the meaning was meant to be. Erin swallowed uneasily, and struggled to keep an emotionless mask as Myra turned to look at her. Golden eyes were dimmed, and looked brown—but Erin (as with any slayer) knew those eyes: Arabella Gothar née De Fortunessa (though no one knew of marriage between the two) with the ability of hyper-suasion. An ability which the Slayer's Guild held in high regards, and wanted to study, making her an –Erin gulped—'untouchable'.

"I don't see how that's anything new, Ingrid," Erin replied using the white blonde hair to shield her eyes slightly from Myra as a cold fear washed over Erin, "Vlad's usually with Bertrand."

"I don't see how _that_ would stop you," Ingrid scoffed, "you're practically attached at the hip. I'm surprised Bertrand doesn't try and lock you up just to keep Vlad away."

Erin flushed and looked away quickly. Myra gave a short laugh.

"What?" Ingrid pushed, and Erin watched in the interaction. Myra shook her head, "Tell me or for _garlic's_ sake I'll—" Ingrid stopped herself suddenly, and tried a different tact, "Would you care to tell me, _Myra_?"

Erin was even more confused now—where was this sudden 'politeness' coming from?

"I liked the emphasis you put on my name," her voice was light and airy to Erin, as if it were a warm summer's breeze wrapping its' arms around her. Erin shuddered at how tender the voice was, especially compared to Magda, Vlad and Ingrid's mother. This vampire was especially dangerous, but at least Erin knew the truth, that _Myra _was just the same bloodthirsty vampire—Myra continued with a flourish of her hands, "It really compelled me to want to answer, especially without you attempting to threaten me. You're very quick to pick up this little game."

"Yes, yes," came the impatient reply.

"Although your temper is short, though that will most likely remain the same, I think. As for why I laughed," Myra looked at Erin briefly examining her not even bothering to make eye contact, much to Erin's relief, "I believe my brother has already attempted that little idea you had. Though I doubt Vlad stood for it, if he's anything like the Count."

Understanding the underlying insinuation, of Erin being the 'damsel in distress' she rose to the occasion—and turned to face her. Shoulders back, chin raised. "I picked the lock, _actually_."

Myra took a leisurely sip from the goblet. Blood had always made her feel more relaxed, and being surrounded by vampires more relaxed than one control freak of a vampire, put her at ease. She has constantly been surrounded—Wolfie and now Ingrid. But the one person she wanted to talk to was the Count. Though he was a link to the past, he was also a link to better times of when Myra was a more confident Vampress. Ingrid actually reminded Myra of herself, though a much more aggressive and power hungry version. With a subdued sigh Myra gave a sympathetic look to the 'half-fang', though not caring enough about the girl to actually mean anything she said, "Of course you did. That's what any rational Vampress would do."

Erin glowered at the woman, hearing the patronising tone, and sent Ingrid a final glare before crossing her arms and leaving the manor altogether. The only pause was to allow someone to enter with a mumbled, "Excuse me, Miss." Ingrid's posture slumped slightly, before straightening and Myra could feel the anger leaving the young girl in waves. So the latter stopped to observe those who had crossed the threshold. Myra felt a flush of her own anger mix with Ingrid's—the Count was with a breather.

The females sent each other the sort of smile that tended to bring out the worst in people, or rather (because they were Vampires) the best.

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><p><strong><em>Reviews are not a necessity, but are greatly appreciated.<em>**


	7. Chapter Five: Past Mistakes

_**Disclaimer: Young Dracula is owned by people who own it, which just happens to **__not__** be me. The OC's however... yeah—I own 'em!**_

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><p><strong>Author's Note: <strong>_**Because I've been so utterly lazy and lacked motivation for some time (partly due to the series ending! Though I can't wait until season four!) I decided to give you a two in one day as an 'I'm Sorry'.**_

_**Thanks be to the people who (whilst I have been MIA) alerted, favourited and so on this story—it's nice knowing people **_**do**_** read this aside from myself of course. **_

_**Please note, as I am totally and completely unfamiliar with the British secondary schooling system and this 'GCSE'whatchamahoosie (In Western Australia we call it WACE/ATAR), I've completely fictionalised the commitments in regards to passing 'highschool'! So (as it's not really that big of a deal to Myra) a nod the head and go with it, is required! **^_^****_

_**Albeit from me to distract you any longer—crack on!**_

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><p><strong>Drink My Soul<strong>

_This chapter (and the one before I might add) is dedicated to _DeductiveAndroid_: I shall take that sugar and type my fingers off! Your review really spurred me to want to finish this story, so two chapters ah-hoy! **virtual glompage**_

**Chapter Five: Past Mistakes**

"_Who can mistake great thoughts?_

_They seize upon the mind; arrest and search and shake it;_

_Bow the tall soul as by the wind;_

_Rush over it like rivers over reeds."—__**Philip James Bailey**_

In the middle of a grand gesture and (by the look of it) a story, the Count froze upon entering the room and seeing Myra smiling across at Ingrid.

"Mr Count?" came Ms McCauley's voice. The Count couldn't quite answer, even when the beautiful vixen lightly shook his shoulder. Myra turned her head to his direction, and the Count couldn't make any sense of his muddled thoughts. "Mr Count," though McCauley's voice was firm, it was Myra's (to the Count) excitement, which dipped into the elder's mind and brought him to his senses.

"Ah, Count, you're back! Ingrid was keeping me company whilst I awaited your return," the Golden eyes became harder as they shifted to the breather. "And who, might I ask, is this?"

Unconsciously taking a step in between the two, the Count bared his fangs in a warning hiss. Myra glimpsed at Ingrid and the two traded a look. Undaunted, McCauley stepped around the Count and made her presence known.

"You may ask," humour sparked in the ocean blue eyes, stunning Myra for a moment, "but, you can call me Alex McCauley," she held out a hand, and the Vampress blinked uncertainly at the gesture, unsure of what it was she needed to do. Awkwardly lowering her hand, Miss McCauley attempted to break the silence, "And...You are?"

"Myra," she replied with a shrug, sending the Count a smirk. He winced. Too many females in one room—one of which he wanted, the other which he despised, and the last he would like nothing better than to take to a dark part of his castle and...No, no... he wouldn't—couldn't—think on that. Bad impure thoughts, they were—better to think of coffins, and blood and the new sun shield! A dazed look crossed the Count's face as his thoughts wandered, Myra barely contained the urge to roll her eyes. Intending to ask the breather to leave so as to be able to talk to the Count without interruption Myra made to stand to dismiss the breather. Alex. But the human continued with a follow up question which completely threw Myra off guard, "You're a friend of Ingrid's then?"

In that instant the Count blinked and glanced quickly between the two female vampires, and Myra was glad she was still sitting. "No...I, uh... well not quite I am, that is to say—" blinking repeatedly, she struggled to regain some of her cognitive processes so as not to appear like a floundering fish, though that's exactly what she felt like. "I'm Bertrand's younger sister."

"Ah, Vlad's tutor?" Myra nodded as the breather continued, "How long are you staying at Garside?"

Silence followed.

Myra looked in desperation towards the Count, not quite sure herself how long she _could_ stay as opposed to how long she _wanted_ to stay. The Count needed to know his family was endangered, and so did Bertrand, and—well all of them. They weren't safe, but that didn't mean that Myra could just up and leave did it? She liked it here. The constant banter between everybody, it was like she was young again and learning how to tolerate Bertrand from the beginning, only now she had patience, and a reservation to throwing caution to the sun. It was better to play it safe; she'd learnt, then to make hasty decisions not well thought out. The Count looked back at her; grey eyes alight with confusion as his telepathy breached the barriers of her consciousness-

_Yes—how long, Myra?_

Myra opened her mouth to start a sentence she didn't know how to start, when Ingrid saved her. "Why would you want to know that, _miss_?"

The young vampire was growing on Myra, and the latter sent Ingrid a look of thanks to which she received a smirk. Unawares of the interaction, McCauley explained,

"Well Ingrid, as you well know, it's against the law for anyone under the legal age to not attend school unless being home tutored. I am unaware of your brother teaching the required core subjects that **must** be taken until the GCSE examinations are complete. Considering your age Myra, I'm afraid that you'll have to attend our classes until such time that you leave. I'll handle your enrolment, so no need to worry," Myra blinked, what in damnation was a 'G-C-S-E'? It sounded like a disease one had to be tested for, and yet the woman continued, "I'm sure you can borrow a uniform from Ingrid or Erin—I expect to see you tomorrow for class. Mr Count," with a tip of the head Ms McCauley left, and the Count gazed after her.

Myra felt a pang stretch across her stomach and in a sudden burst of anger at the look of wanton lust that entered the Count's gaze. Not because she wanted him, that was utterly ridiculous, but rather because that was a human. What was the world coming to? How could Count Vladimir Dracula fall for _**that**_, a breather? A cross between a grimace and a sneer, Myra glared at said Count. The latter flinched at the utter vehemence which oozed from the golden eyes. Ingrid smirked across at her father—finally, **finally**, after an entire lifetime of sexism and being treated like a slave, the Count was getting his head served on a platter by a Vampress all with a simple look. Ingrid glanced across at the outright anger Myra was displaying, and yet observed the way the elder female refrained from hissing or snarling or _anything_—she just glared, and yet the affect (Ingrid swallowed her bout of laughter) was priceless.

"_What_?" was the stunted response from the Count, and Myra simply raised an eyebrow. There was an uncomfortably long pause, in which the Count fidgeted. "Arabella, enough with the—" the Count gave a jerky wave of his hand. Ingrid gasped, and Myra frowned looking across at Ingrid, eyes softening.

"Arabella?" Ingrid repeated, looking at Myra with a newfound interest, "_The_ Arabella?"

"It was a name I went by...before...how is it familiar to you?"

Ingrid lent forwards eagerly. "Well, Mum usually fumed about you when I was a kid whenever dad did something which 'proved he didn't love her'," she shrugged, "the name was always a soft spot for Dad—"

"_Silence_ you **ungrateful** SPAWN!"

The females ignored him. "Mum never really said _why_ it bothered him so much, but always implied that you were a fling of Dad's."

Myra chuckled lightly. The only vampire she had ever met to pout and stamp her feet to get her own way (and her men) was, "Your Mum... is Magda Westenra, isn't it?" Ingrid nodded, and Myra looked across towards the Count. "Nice to know you jumped on the only Vampire that would toss you aside like a blood-soaked handkerchief."

The Count flinched, opening his mouth to reply, though his features became more enraged as Ingrid cut over him.

"So how old does that make you exactly?"

"Older than you, younger then Bertrand—safe to say I'm in between," Ingrid scowled at the evasiveness of the answer, Myra smirked, "I've already told you how old, you only need listen." With an aggravated growl, pairing with the Count's outright rage, Ingrid slouched back in the armchair. Myra returned to the Count, his mouth opening and closing ever so slightly. "Struggling with forming sentences are we?"

Snickering, Ingrid took that as her cue to leave. She hadn't _that_ much of a desire to have another pointless argument with her father, nor watch one. Besides—if Myra (she paused) _no_, **Arabella** survived, as Ingrid assumed she would, it would place her that much closer to gaining power over the Dracula's and seizing control over vampires. A friendship with benefits of the social kind, if you would. But if Ingrid woke to find the older Vampress as a pile of ash, then _Myra_ wasn't worth knowing anyway, though the 'etiquette' lessons would be worthwhile to keep.

Ingrid hoped it would be **Arabella** which survived the altercations. "I think I'll leave the old flame to catch up," she turned menacingly (warningly, Myra observed), "Oh, and close your mouth Dad it's _pathetic._"

It was only after the door further into the manor had clicked shut that the Count's rage took over. And as it was a woman which infuriated him, it would be a woman that would pay the price. The Count snarled in frustration and stalked his way towards Myra, stooping over the stationary figure. Eyes connected in a battle of power as the elder tried to intimidate with height. Ice grey pitched against the burning molten that was gold. Gripping her slim shoulders their foreheads touching he murmured hotly, "You, **girl**, have chosen the wrong day to infuriate me."

Myra narrowed her eyes, mock sympathy dripping like acid as her lips ghosted over his tauntingly, "Little breather playmate not standing still of you to **bite**." To prove her point Myra snapped her jaws together making an audible clack.

The Count jerked away from her, cheeks paled as a light sparked in the eyes. He pointed (Myra could only assume was to be) menacingly. "SILENCE!" Thunder boomed as the floor vibrated in his anger.

"Or what?"

He blinked, face blank. "Or—" slowly the eyes narrowed and he smirked saying simply, "Or I'll call Gothar."

Fear flittered through her beautiful eyes and the Count wondered if, perhaps, he'd gone too far. Myra turned to the fireplace. The Count was cruel, she knew as that was the nature with all Vampires- but he had been the one, the _only_ one, which had treated her like she was something to be valued, he had been so sincere, so willing... Myra had taken that side of him and annihilated any possibility of the Count feeling that way about anyone or anything. She recalled the desperation in his eyes, the pain in his voice as he had begged her not to go—that he would give her the world if only she asked. But _Arabella _thought that to be pathetic,

"_Is that your way of telling me that you love me, Vladimir Dracula?"_

"_If that's what you want my Arabella, then yes. I love you like the moon needs night!"_

"_That is utterly repulsive," and mockingly she continued, "Repulsive like the sun mixed with garlic and sprinkled over a stake. Love means nothing. _Is _nothing. An excuse to bind yourself for eternity. I don't want love, nor do I need it. I crave excitement, and danger—I want what it is you can never give me. Passion and desire."_

"_Then you choose him, over me?" the face contorted in a way which produced a spark Arabella had never truly felt with Vladimir. A hunger—she acted on it, faces ghosting, when the spark fled. Arabella wanted it, the spark, _needed_ it. She smirked, hand lightly smoothing the night black hair._

"_My darling Vladimir."_

_Finally, Vladimir Dracula, future Count—had won. Nabbed the most desired Vampress the undead had to offer. Perfect, stunning, in every sense of the words. "My Arabella."_

_He made to take her hand when she said the words— "You were never part of the equation." – and _Vladimir_ died._

Guilt bleed throughout her body, from her very heart- and were it beating she was sure it would have shuddered as cold enveloped her body. But this was Myra now, though the Count couldn't see that. Couldn't... _accept_ that, perhaps? But she wanted to be free of Gothar, free of the fear and pain that constantly surrounded her. Whatever that meant, and whatever it entailed. Myra couldn't help but wonder how it was that a name sparked such a response? Couldn't help but wonder when it was she became so weak. She frowned, and the Count had never wanted to hit Renfield so badly.

His voice was softer when he spoke, "Ara—"

"No," the voice whipped out, oddly disembodied from the stationary body. She wouldn't be associated with her past. He swallowed, remembering it was '_Myra_' now.

"Myra," he begun again hesitating, she said nothing to stop him, nor urge the continuance of his thoughts. He sighed, murmuring, "What has happened that has turned you into such," again the Count struggled with choosing his words, but he continued anyway, "a pathetic example of a vampiric woman?"

Myra's breathing halted. "You were always a sexist," she whispered, "that has never changed. But as heartless and as evil as I was, as _**pathetic **_ as you deem I am—" she turned to him eye boring a new hole into the Count, "—at least _**I**_ do not fall in love with breathers." The Count flinched as the subtle growl in her voice was accompanied by the crackle of lighting and its' booming thunder. "You made no attempts to _ask_ me what has happened, so I will never tell you why I am that I am—so," penetrating the barrier between simple hypnotism and hyper-suasion, her eyes glowed brighter, "—so, Count Dracula, _I highly suggest you leave me alone_." Blinking the Count straightened his overbearing posture before flitting away.

Myra, finally alone for what had to be an entire week, placed her head in her hands, allowing for her emotions to mix dangerously close to one another, before succumbing to her sadness and fear—

A single tear fell from eye to palm before connecting and shattering into smaller droplets. Sinking into skin to never be seen again. When Myra rose her head, her fragility was the only thing to be seen... but underneath the barriers Myra changed once more, and forged yet another reason to never be called Arabella again:

It hurt.

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><p><em><strong>Reviews are not a necessity, but are greatly appreciated.<strong>_


	8. Chapter Six: Possibilities

_**Disclaimer: Young Dracula is owned by people who own it, which just happens to **__not__** be me. The OC's however... yeah—I own 'em!**_

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><p><strong>Author's Note: <strong>_**And more about the De Fortunessa's are revealed! Muwahaha! From here on out, the story becomes just a **_**little **_**more AU... enjoy!**_

_**Reality Slayed the Dreamer: **_Yay! My mysterious reviewer is revealed! **dances madly** It really makes me happy that I can keep you entertained with the Dracula's and De Fortunessa's antics whilst you've been in hospital— here's hoping I continue to! (No pressure, yeah :P)

**_Deductive Android: _**You are most definitely welcome~! More...sugar...for me? Reeeeeaaaallllyyyy? I do so enjoy mad sugar rushes! They make me go all whooliy in the head! :3 As for the reading more—_here you go~!_

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><p><strong>Drink My Soul<strong>

_This chapter goes out to _Reality Slayed the _Dreamer__: thanks so much for your compliment, in return: here is your update! _

_**attempts a courtly bow*_

**Chapter Six: Possibilities**

"_Most people are not really free. _

_They are confined by the niche in the world they carve out for themselves. _

_They limit themselves to fewer possibilities by the narrowness of their vision." _

–_**V. S. Naipaul**_

"This is pointless," Bertrand growled towards the younger vampire.

"Uh, what?"

_That_, Bertrand was tempted to point out, _is precisely the question I've been asking myself whenever I'm in a room with you._

"Can you not concentrate on what I am asking you to do for one iota of a moment?"

"I was!" Vlad protested, and Bertrand rolled his eyes.

"Yes," he said, "because I clearly asked you to, _not_ try and use telepathy, but instead kiss the air whilst imagining Erin." Vlad flushed and Bertrand felt the urge to bite something. With a resigned sigh, he murmured, "Just once I wish you would understand your responsibility."

"Hey! I never asked for any of this!"

"And yet, you have it Vlad, use it!" Bertrand fled the room, fled from _Vlad_ to be more specific. His anger was pulsing in time with the short breaths, a rage aimed at the –he scoffed inwardly—Chosen One. The boy couldn't separate need from want, his longing for Erin from the need as Chosen One to rise to power and take control. Even if all Vladimir wanted was to live 'with' Breathers, at least the boy took an interest in the well-being of his kind. Though Bertrand refused to allow that to happen, he _would_ change the way the boy was thinking. But now? All because of Erin, the boy had become distant shirking his duty, there was only so many times he could push the boy. Anger, the elder realised bitterly, did not mix well with _children_ of which Vlad persisted on behaving like. It was infuriating.

Bertrand put all of his time, his life (or 'un'life) into his training so as to bring the Chosen One to a heightened sense of glory when his potential was released, with Bertrand having taught all that he knew. Every secret. Every technique. Everything. Gnashing his teeth together he decided to go Myra—his little sister tended to know what to say, or at least she was good to spar with. Just thinking about what he gave up, made Bertrand angrier—his relationship with Arabella had been pulled apart by what he needed to do in regards to the Chosen One. And yet Vlad did nothing, **nothing**, to make his sacrifice worthwhile. In that respect Vlad was the perfect vampire—selfish. But in that aspect only. Were he to emphasise his vampiric prowess into his training it would be worthwhile—but no such luck existed.

Entering the living area Bertrand frowned and approached his stationary sister. There was something...not quite right. Her posture slumped, head in her hands, though he could hear no sounds. "Myra?"

She looked up, face blank. "What can I do for you brother?"

"You could tell me what happened?" Bertrand offered, seeing the diminished golden eyes.

"Or," she replied simply, "I could give you a reason for why I should leave once the sun sets."

"Leave?" Bertrand barely restrained his sadness, his frustration. On one side he had the Chosen One who did not want to _be_ the Chosen One. On the other he had Myra whom no longer wanted to be Arabella, was being haunted by Gothar the demented and yet _still_ wanted to leave his protection. Why couldn't they just nod their heads, accept their lot in life and **do **something about it instead of complaining about how 'bad' they had it? He gave a tired sigh. "You've been here a week, Sister. Leaving seems radical when all you've done is mope around your coffin. Why would you want to go?"

Ignoring the jab, which Myra expected from her sibling she focused on the why. It was a good enough question, one Myra wasn't sure she knew the answer to—not that it really mattered to Bertrand, so long as he got what he wanted: her to remain.

"Because..." he raised an eyebrow urging her to continue, "I don't belong here."

"In what way?"

"I have no purpose," she ground out, tearing her eyes from his and glaring at the empty fireplace, "I just...I am. I have no reason to _want_ to stay, nor desire to."

"Your protection."

Pause. "And?"

"Need there be more than one reason, Myra? You have a protection whilst your here, by me, the Count," she flinched, "by..." he hesitated, "Vladimir."

"There is no protection, Bertrand—if Gothar has access to my dreams."

Bertrand took a stunned step towards his young sister. "The reason behind why we could not wake you. Why are you only bringing it up now?"

"Because, Bertrand—he knows I've found you. He _let_ me escape, brother. I'm not safe here, nor are you."

"He...he knows where we are?"

Myra shook her head. "I don't now...but he did ask if the Chosen One was with you. Whatever he's planning, it has to do with Vlad."

Practically pouncing on his sister, Bertrand gripped her shoulders tightly, grey eyes bright. "What did you say? Did you tell him—?"

"N-no, the Count woke me up then," he let her go, beginning to pace as she continued, "I'm not sure what Gothar knows. If he let me escape, then..." she faded off and Bertrand halted suddenly as he understood what she meant. The 'what could' scenario—Gothar could have had her followed, a likely proposition. They were in trouble—but Bertrand was charged with protecting Vladimir as much as the rest of the Draculas. More so, he had to protect Myra. He turned to her now, eyes narrowed slightly observing her in a new light—she had changed so much in 300 years. But Bertrand couldn't decide whether or not he liked this change.

"You said 'Gothar', Myra. A week ago you could barely think his name."

Myra met his gaze openly, face as smooth and blank as an empty canvas. "I'm...I'm Myra now," she informed him uncertainly, "I shouldn't have fear of a name that means nothing to me."

He paused before muttering, "Fear of the name increases fear of the thing itself."

Myra blinked. "What?"

He flashed a smirk, and moved to sit in the opposite arm chair. "It's nothing...just a breather thing, one of the characters said."

"The character was wise," she replied softly.

"Or raving mad," he added with a shrug, "that aside- I think it's time I address the danger we're in. Have you informed the Count?" Bitterness swept across the soft features as her eyes blazed angrily- she shook her head. "This," he pushed, "is something he ought to know."

"Then perhaps," she glared, "it is you who should tell him."

Bertrand lent back in the chair. "The Count and I do not see eye to eye," he informed her.

"Well, brother that's something we share then," she hissed.

"You could not wile him with your charms, sister?" he teased.

She sneered, a look which did not suit her features in the slightest. "How could one 'wile' that, moron? Pray tell."

"Lover's quarrel?"

"Bertrand," the warning tone was accompanied by a low growl, and sobered him in an instant.

"The Count," he paused, "he is still the Regent. It's part of his duty."

Myra rolled her eyes painstakingly, as sarcasm accompanied her retort. "Au contraire, brother. He is a Regent, which is in love with a Breather and would run from his duty without a second glance..."

"Must run in the family," Bertrand muttered to himself.

"Oh?" Myra raised a brow.

He slouched in the chair. "The half-fang Vlad is obsessed with, it's infuriating. I can't get him to concentrate on one task for more than a second—and it's even worse when I'm with the Count and that _**breather**_ is there." Bertrand shook his head in frustration, "It's like the Dracula's don't understand the concept of 'vampire'."

"Perhaps it's because the idea of 'vampire' has been warped," Myra said, thinking out loud, "Like something which is purely vampire has turned them whether fully or subconsciously against falling into place within our society."

"Yet I am being blamed for something that is not my fault!" Bertrand growled, "If Erin could simply _disappear_—" Myra cut him off with a light laugh, he glowered, "What?"

She hummed softly before stating, "It's like that the first time," his eyes narrowed and Myra elaborated in a matter-of-fact tone, "First _love_, Bertrand." Bertrand stared into the empty fireplace, refusing to think, or refusing to remember rather. He focused on each individual muscle, flexing them in their pairs and then in groups. Starting with the foot: Extensor digitorum and extensor hallucis longus tendons.

Myra watched the stony face, noting the stiff movements which started from his feet. She waited until the biceps moved before murmuring, "I still remember, Lav—"

Bertrand's eyes flickered to hers, and Myra stopped herself saying the name. "Love," he scoffed, "what a pathetic notion." Disheartened, she gave him a small look of understanding—two hundred years and the pain was still fresh.

"You don't have to resent her—"

"I don't. It's the _**Slayers**_ I resent."

"It's understandable, she was—"

"Shall I reopen your wounds whilst we sit here confessing, sister? Not that you ever felt anything towards a single one of them. Perhaps it is _you_ behind the Dracula's notion of what being a vampire means has become warped!"

Myra flinched, physically and mentally. "My only point was that you would be seen doing nothing without **her**, give Vlad the same courtesy," she said simply, voice void of all emotion.

Her mind was reeling, not knowing whether to take what Bertrand said seriously or not. Her eyes stung, so she closed the lids on the world. Focused merely on deciphering her new feelings. After all, it was her fault to some degree, was it not? To put it simply: she had burnt the Count. No. Not _she_—Arabella and _she_ was not that person. Or at least she thought she wasn't. Myra was still different. Not as angry at the world, not as power hungry and not as flighty. Gothar had seen it his duty to break her, and Myra was the result. She opened her eyes, though could not make sense of the things around her.

She was, better.

Then again, Myra didn't have the first clue what better actually meant. All she could remember before Gothar was the Count—their time had been turbulent with Magda vying for his attention every moment she could. But she had been happy—or _Arabella_ had. If Myra was not that person, it meant all ties with who she was had to be cut. No Gothar meant, no Count, no Magda and 100% no Bertrand. It felt like someone had traced down her spine with a finger dipped in ice, and Myra recoiled instantly from the thought of trying to forget. Bertrand loved her as much as he could without having to physically say the words. But he was, to some degree, healing as well. Perhaps there was a way to be a mixture of Myra _and _Arabella—perhaps Ingrid served as more of a purpose then to simply infuriate her father.

Perhaps Ingrid could help her heal.

"_Myra!"_ she blinked staring directly into Bertrand's panic filled eyes. "Don't do that again," he murmured, "I am sorry if my words hurt you, but _don't_ do that again."

She squinted at him, eyes stinging. "What have I done now?"

"Your eyes," he hesitated for a moment, "they were all gold, and then—" he raised his hand as if to caress her cheek, but instead swept his thumb underneath one of the eyes and raised it to her face: Blood. "Your eyes," he continued, "...they started to bleed."

Myra widened her eyes despite the pain— "How," she began, but Vlad sprinted into the room, face pale. Bertrand flickered his eyes towards the fireplace quickly before connecting to Myra's again, ordering her to turn her head—she complied without an argument. This was something which the siblings would have to figure out on their own. Myra realised that as much as she wanted to run and escape from all of this, she couldn't- she was... _safe._

"Bertrand, we've got a problem."

Swinging around to face him Bertrand folded his arms across his chest, hiding his blood covered thumb in the ball of one of his fists. "We have more than one," Bertrand intoned, with a glare, "What's happened?"

"The Praedictum Impaver is glowing," Vlad blurted, and beckoned Bertrand to follow. The 300-odd year old vampire felt the urge to bite something all over again as his eyes lit in annoyance. He made a mental note of all the things he needed to do, preferably before he died, his sister left or the Clan Leaders made themselves known. Number one: Open the Praedictum Impaver. Two: Train Vladimir without being reduced to ash by the Count. Three: Figure out exactly what it is Gothar the _Demented_ was planning to do. Four: Myra, and this was perhaps the biggest task of all—he had to stop insulting her, fix her so she wasn't as weak (what would the Clan Leaders say if they say her like this?), and figure out why her eyes are bleeding which brought him to the most confusing thing, an emotion he hadn't felt since a child: he needed to figure out how she _can_ bleed... (_on second thought_, Bertrand frowned, _that may have to move up on the list of things to do_).

It was not a lot of things to do, providing all participants were willing and ready to do what he said—but _no_ that was too much to ask for. The Dracula's (and his sister for that matter) were all infurating, it was **their** way, or none at all. Bertrand was convinced that the De Fortunessa's were cursed.

He blamed Erin.

For everything.

Just because he could, and just because—he didn't like her.

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><p><em><strong>AN.2: What do we think? ;)<strong>_


	9. Chapter Seven: Worlds Collide

_**Disclaimer: Young Dracula is owned by people who own it, which just happens to **__not__** be me. The OC's however... yeah—I own 'em!**_

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><p><strong>Author's Note: <strong>_**So there's quite a lot of scene changes as this chapter uses direct quotes from the series whilst also revealing more about the character Myra, but to do this successfully I needed to separate Myra from "the gang". Hopefully I've done the changes well enough that they don't feel out of place! Enjoy!**_

_**Insanity is my second name:**__ Yay! I'm excited to reveal both secrets regarding the De Fortunessa's, though slowly of course ;)_

_**Deductive Android: **__Awesome? **triumphant fist pump** Hells to the yeah! And I'll happily take my rainbow lollipop, thaaaank you! Now, you go off to enjoy the chapter whilst I start another sugar rush and begin the next instalment! :3_

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><p><strong>Drink My Soul<strong>

_And so here is the part where I dedicate this chapter to someone!_

Insanity Is My Second Name_: may Bertrand's secret, haha—well let's just say more is revealed about _that_ certain someone ;P_

**Chapter Seven: Worlds Collide**

"_A mighty pain to love it is,_

_And 'tis a pain that pain to miss;_

_But of all the pains,_

_The greatest pain is to love,_

_But love in vain." _

–_**Abraham Cowley**_

Myra looked down at her legs again. She was pale, that much she knew, but against the black skirt which was part of the Garside uniform her legs practically shone like the moon. It was...annoying. She looked up to Renfield whom had come to take away the bloodied rags she had used to clean her face, as well as an empty bottle which was used to disguise the fact that her eyes had bled by making it look like Myra had spilt the bottle.

Bleeding. Myra suppressed the urge to shudder, how had she bled? She had no heartbeat to move blood around her body, so where had it come from? Was it just stale blood which remained since she turned at the age of 16? She took a deep breath as Renfield turned to her.

"If that's all, Miss Myra," he turned on his heel.

"Wait," she called out and the smelly breather turned to her, Myra learnt quickly not to pull faces at the stench but rather push it aside—she felt bad for Renfield therefore she should not make fun of him... much.

"Well?" he asked impatiently, and Myra shook her head pushing her thoughts aside.

"How..." she hesitated, "How do I look, Renfield?"

His eyes gleamed, as he surveyed Myra's slim form. Encircling her eyes pausing momentarily on her breasts (she resisted the urge to bite him and simply scrunched her fists) before he gestured to Bertrand's leather jacket. "I'd put that on," he suggested.

Myra frowned and ran her fingers over the pristine white blouse Vlad had borrowed from the Half-Fang. "Is it because—?"

Renfield rolled his eyes. "Vampire women and their insecurities," he muttered and Myra jerked her eyes to meet his. Renfield panicked, "Uh-um, I mean no disrespect," he bit his lip dropping his chin and looking quickly from the left to the right before adding, "You look like a Breather, Mistress, if that's what you're after—though Master will not be happy seeing your dressed as one."

Myra took two hasty steps forwards. "What?"

Renfield turned from her, and his heartbeat piked in fear. "No, no, no—garlic, why'd you have to say a thing like that," he hissed, "Should've kept me mouth shut." Myra paused, listening as the voice lilted and wobbled. She raised a hand, before reluctantly placing it on Renfield's shoulder- and the latter froze. Myra pulled him around to face her and looked directly into his eyes.

"What did the Count say Renfield? You can tell me," she smiled at him, "I have no reason to tell the Count anything, and he has no reason to suspect." A dazed expression crossed Renfield's features as he listened to her. Her eyes glowed, "_It wouldn't hurt to tell me what he said_."

Renfield spoke in a monotone with a small smile upon his face, as Myra held eye-contact with him practically prying the information from Renfield's lips, "Master went on about how different you were. Mentioned you by name. Said he should've stood up for you to keep honour to vampires when the breather was there, or at least talked with you before about it."

"So he cares?" she whispered, more to herself then anyone. Warmth spread throughout Myra, starting from her chest and seeping outwards. Renfield replied anyway.

"No. No," he shook his head, "Master doesn't care. He never cares—probably just wants to use you or something." Myra dropped her gaze suddenly, as increasing pressure was felt behind her eyes. She hissed in pain and pitched forwards hand covering her face. Renfield snorted in surprise, like he'd forgotten he was there. "Miss Myra, are you alright?"

Myra winced as she stood straight and turned from him. "Get Bertrand, Renfield," she ordered hastily, "and...more blood."

He turned and left Myra alone. The room spun about her, and her head pounded as a fire burnt where her eyes should be—she could feel liquid with a strange warmth and sticky against her hand. She knew it was blood, but that was when the world faded into gold and Myra felt the ground come up to meet her.

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><p>The Count lent against his arm, back straight against the wood of his throne. "Why," his voice was dark, "Has the Praedictum Impaver," his voice lilted in sarcasm, "light up like a Christmas tree?" He met silence, and dropped his hand to survey those before him. Renfield walked into the room, and then stood looking like the pathetic idiot he was, apparently he'd forgotten something as he frowned and bit his lip before shrugging. Vladimir frowned, posture obviously annoyed. Bertrand was stoic as ever, face carefully blank though his lips remained pursed. Ingrid sat on the sofa near the fireplace filing her nails, and Erin—well the Count barely spared her a glance. "I mean—what's it doing?"<p>

Bertrand turned walked forwards, face becoming thoughtful. The Count couldn't help but notice the similarities between him and Myra, in personality. The De Fortunessa's were the only ones he'd ever had the unfortunate luck of meeting whom seemed to think out loud. Thinking of Myra—where was she? Surely he hadn't made her _that_ mad—that was too easy. Though something she said, that he hadn't asked her about 'why she was the way she was'... what did that even mean? Perhaps, he'll ask... when he sees her next of course. Finally Bertrand spoke, "The pulsing light's a signal, calling out to someone. The question is, 'who' and 'why'?

The Count froze. "Ah, the Clan Leaders."

Bertrand barely resisted the urge to swear in every language he knew—"The book will lead them right to us!" His mind whirled. They were not ready, not ready at all. Vlad was still weak, Myra who would have been the perfect distraction was... well she just wasn't ready for that sort of interaction! Now was the perfect time to panic.

The Count glowered at Bertrand, snapping at Renfield who had brought a tarantula and was trying to egg it on to create cobwebs. "Put away the welcome web, this is not good news."

"Unless they think the signal means I've opened the book," Vlad replied. The Count rose from his throne and flittered before his son and heir.

"Except you haven't," the voice was melodic as he expressed his frustration through speaking. With a pointed look at Bertrand the Count continued, "You've got every vampire in the world waiting to hear what's inside—and you have not delivered!"

Vlad spun on the spot to face his father. Eyes bright—"I'm close! I just need more time!"

The Count threw his head towards the ceiling, "Uh! There is no more time!" He grabbed Vladimir by the shoulders and continued menacingly trying to get it through that thick skull which he _couldn't_ have inherited from him, "They will want answers, not excuses! No answers?" he stood straight, "And their strongest will come and finish us."

Ingrid snorted. "Looks like someone's going to get it in the neck."

The Count was beside her instantly. Lowering his head so it was next to her ear he murmured, "You think this is funny? If Vlad doesn't open the book, we will all be ash." Ingrid's smirk fell from her face as she registered the danger they were in. Her, more importantly—she had things to do, people to corrupt, a world to lead. Where the hell was Myra? She'd obviously survived the encounter with the Count as no ash could be found, surely she could help them.

The Count moved behind Bertrand, close enough to make the tutor seize up as the elder vampire breathed on the exposed skin of his neck. "Now do your job. Teach him how to open the book—" he took a step back, glancing between his son and his tutor, "—clock's ticking," and taking a step nearer to Vlad he crooned, "tick-tock," standing straight he repeated himself before flitting away

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><p><em>She was in the corridor again. <em>

_Stone surrounding her and constricting her—she was closer to the door this time, only the desire to reach it was stronger. Like if she didn't get to it soon she was going to die. Though somewhere, just at the edge between dreams and reality she heard a voice, powerful and commanding:_

"**Open and reveal my destiny!**"

_But Myra didn't move, she couldn't. _

_Body frozen in some sort of trance as the stone shone gold and before Myra could even register it; she was thrown into memories she had long since tried to forget._

_Pain the only thing she could feel._

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><p>Ingrid had been on her way to Bertrand's and Myra's coffin room when she heard the most pathetic sound known to the planet she was forced to live on coming from her brother. So, of course the only sensible thing to do was make fun of him—she flittered behind him.<p>

"'_Open and reveal my destiny!_'" she mimed, and taking a fang from Myra she continued mockingly as Vlad spun to face her, "Very powerful. Very compelling—and," she paused, "totally ineffective." With an echoing laugh she flittered away, and Vlad couldn't help but snarl.

What was he doing that was so wrong? _What_? And then _he_ appeared.

"Ignore her," Bertrand intoned, "You have to dig deep into the blackest part of your soul."

"What's the point," Vlad spat out, "Alright? I can't open it." Vlad turned away from his tutor in frustration. He couldn't do anything right—not with Erin, not with Ingrid not with Bertrand and definitely not with his father. He was doomed, so what the garlic was the point?

"Yes," Bertrand said simply as Vlad walked away, "you can." With a shove, Vlad paused in his brooding, feeling the well of anger pulse. He swung a punch at Bertrand wildly, but the latter caught the fist and tossed it aside. Vlad tried again, swinging wide—and deflecting it Bertrand grabbed the pathetic Chosen One's face, squeezing the cheeks together angrily. "Do you want to see your family turn to ash? You want to hear their screams as they pay for _your_ failure?" Bertrand had his fangs bared and over emphasised each word he spoke. His sister was in danger and he was so very tired of putting everything he had into something for absolutely no return. The tutor shoved Vlad away in disgust, "The book can't open because it sees the coward inside."

Vlad's eyes bled black and he was in Bertrand's face in a second. "I am **NOT** a coward!" he roared. Swinging a directed fist followed by the second one, Bertrand grabbed both, though shook in exertion at the power Vlad had behind it.

"It can smell the fear on you," he provoked breathlessly, "The boy frightened of the monster in the cupboard," Vlad pushed down with all his strength and Bertrand began to kneel, "—too scared to look!"

They pushed away from each other, and in the moment it took to blink Bertrand had a stake in his hand and flung himself at Vlad's defensive back. The Chosen one turned at the last second as their bodies collided, falling to the floor. With a roll, Vlad ripped the stake from Bertrand and positioned himself on top of his tutor—fangs bared. "I'll show you who's frightened."

Bertrand, though so close to death didn't care. If he had to die for the protection of his race so be it! "Let the monster out!" he shouted, almost gleefully. At least in death he would join his precious Lavinia murdered so long ago by slayers and the pathetic breathers. Vlad gripped the steak—"Do it!"—raised it above his head, and Bertrand's eyes flashed, comprehending that this was it. With a roar Vlad brought the stake straight down to where Bertrand's heart would be, but pulled short, rolling off the elder at the last second. Panic filled Bertrand as he looked to the _Praedictum Impaver_, all bony fingers opened before snapping shut. His hand flung out, as if he could stop it, "_**NO!**_"

A chill covered him and every nerve seemed to be dipped into the ocean all at once.

They were doomed.

"I can't," Vlad refuted standing hastily and looking down at Bertrand, "I won't let go!"

The latter gave him a blank stare. "Then we'll all die," he muttered simply before anger pulsed. This was Erin's fault; the stupid half-fang was corrupting him. "I heard you and Erin talking," he hissed, "I know the truth. And I know your secret."

Vlad froze eyes downcast. And then he heard something.

* * *

><p><em>Myra thought she had repressed everything—every part of Arabella, the only part there was to remember was when she had left Gothar...but therein laid the problem: she had failed.<em>

Thrown into her bedroom, a hand flung her to the nearest wall and Arabella's vision exploded into millions of cascading lights. She snarled in frustration as the hand gripped her neck and pressured her head upwards. Her eyes narrowed at the figure pinning her to the wall. His blonde hair was neatly pulled away from his face by a black ribbon as the brown eyes sparked.

"Arabella, enough with the ill-temper," Elathin admonished the young vampire. Myra growled once more before Gothar pressed the heel of his hand against her slim throat—she choked. "Must I discipline you all over again?" he murmured against her ear, "Or are you willing to behave?"

Arabella considered her options rapidly. Go through another beating, or stand there and take his insults like the broken woman she was becoming. She chose the latter. The lack of breathing was increasingly uncomfortable, even for the dead. With a slight nod of her head, Elathin released her.

"I don't understand why you have to treat me that way in front of guests," she grumbled straightening her posture and rubbing the raw skin of her neck. Gothar shrugged simply as he moved away from her and towards the door seemingly disinterested with her presence. One hand reached behind his head to undo the ribbon as she moved away from the wall. Arabella glowered, "I know I am a woman, Elathin, but I will _not_ be treated like some pathetic breather—allowing you to pull me to and fro like some...some...**beast**!"

He narrowed his eyes warningly. "Beast?" he repeated softly, thoughtfully. Finally, Arabella felt like she'd gotten through to him. After their hasty departure from Europe half a century ago, Elathin had decided to make his new home in seclusion. Australia—any vampire's personal hell as the nights were not nearly long enough and the amount of shade the country offered was pathetic. She'd wanted to separate from Gothar earlier on, simply because the elder was overbearingly possessive. Of course that's what Arabella liked about him in the first place, never having to say anything, just going along with the mayhem and destruction. Now, however, the fun was over and she wanted to go home. "I don't think you understand my Arabella," she frowned as he took a step towards her, "_You_. Are _mine_."

Arabella shook her head. "I am not a possession to be won, Elathin."

He smiled condescendingly. "If only that were true," he murmured thoughtfully, "You want power, do you not? Youth?"

"What vampire does not?" she muttered breathlessly.

"I can give it to you," he whispered a slow smile gracing his features. She shivered, "Anything you desire is yours. You need only stay by my side."

An empty promise if ever there was one, Arabella noted.

"That is precisely why I left everyone and everything behind," she hissed, "so I could be with you. So you could give me _power_."

His face was so close, a blank hunger the only expression. Danger seeped from his every pore and whilst Arabella would usually be attracted to him, somewhere just beyond her consciousness—she was afraid. She took a step back against the wall, but Elathin mimed her step. Head tilted to the side, eyes entranced by her. "Convince me," he hissed, "take what you want from me." Arabella clenched her jaw, eyes wide. Elathin lent his forehead against hers. "Hyper-suade me Arabella," she scrunched her eyes shut—willing the monster in front of her to disappear.

She was tossed aside like a rag doll, and her body slapped against the carpet. Arabella attempted to curl in on herself, the only defence she knew which made the pain more bearable. And she wished for Bertrand to come out of nowhere, or Vladimir to come raging into the room only to register the danger and flee (taking her with him, obviously). Yes, that would be ideal—her brother, and the only Vampire to ever humour her.

But no such luck existed in this hell.

She felt Gothar grip her shoulder, as he wrenched Arabella onto her back. She hit him mercilessly with short punches anywhere she could, though Elathin barely noticed. He saw those annoying eyes closed and that bothered him. He straddled her waist placing his index and middle fingers against his Arabella's temples. "_Look. At. Me_," he ground out. Arabella focused harder on Bertrand, breaths increasing in speed as the pressure on her temples increased. Elathin let an animalistic howl rip from his chest as nails pieced Arabella's delicate skin.

The eyes snapped open as an unholy scream pierced the silent night. Pain erupted from her temples and she couldn't think—couldn't comprehend where she was. There was just wave after wave of agony.

He smiled, as the golden eyes pulsed brightly in Arabella's emotional state. "Look at me," Elathin repeated and she complied instantaneously, "Your eyes, your power is mine. Use it and repeat after me." The golden eyes blazed brightly as her mouth opened and her world went gold.

It was that night Arabella began to fade and the fear began. Pain became her life for over one hundred years, never feeling quite the same—but always having the same affect.

_From the repressed memory Myra remembered one feeling out of all the rest—Gothar's thin fingers tracing over her cheeks, making them wet. And a gasp fled her lips: Blood. _

_The sick bastard had played with her blood!_

_She was in the corridor again, and looked up—Myra was closer towards the door. A door she was now petrified to opening. What would it open to reveal?_

_And then...she woke._

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><p>Erin's heart flew at a hundred miles per hour, feet not moving fast enough to keep up with Vlad. "What do you mean, 'he knows our secret'? What <strong>exactly<strong> did he say?"

Vlad had reached the bottom of the stairs and turned to face Erin, whom was still halfway up the staircase. "He said, 'I heard you and Erin talking, I know your secret. I know the truth'."

Erin froze.

She forced the words from her numb lips, "He knows I'm a human...I'm out of here." As she tried to push past Vlad, the vampire gripped her arm instantly stopping her. Eyes flashing.

"No! It's dangerous out there!"

_And it isn't in here_? Erin thought, "I'll take my chances."

Vlad took step closer, faces inches apart. "I don't want you to become one of us," Erin looked at him intensely, finding comfort in crystal blue eyes. He whispered, "Sometimes...it's better to hide, and fight another day."

They were silent for a moment, until Vlad felt the strange possessive hunger which pulsed through him. He pulled back, and away from Erin in an instant—not wanting to risk another argument. Turning away he continued down the stairs all the while a clawing felt at the pit of his stomach to turn around and—

Vlad moved even faster as if he could run from what he was. Erin struggled to keep up, but Vlad didn't pause, because if he did...well he didn't know what would happen and that scared him most of all.


	10. Chapter Eight: Preparations

_**Disclaimer: Young Dracula is owned by people who own it, which just happens to **__not__** be me. The OC's however... yeah—I own 'em!**_

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><p><strong>Author's Note: <strong>_**Have I been on a role of late or **_what_**?**_ _**Whatever happened before the Clan Leader shows up? Let's just say, the Count's at it again, Bertrand attempts to—why don't you read the chapter instead! :D**_

_**Insanity Is My Second Name:**__ Thank you so much! I wasn't sure about her name at first, but after the read throughs Lavinia just fit Bertrand so perfectly. As for Gothar attacking Myra: it is real, but a memory she repressed. The memory forms whilst she is in the Dreamworld and Myra re-experiences the events (as we know—whatever happens in the Dreamworld happens to them outside of it) so you're right!_

_**Reality Slayed the Dreamer: **__Amazing? **fans self dramatically** Well thank you! As for being creepy, I think that's the main role the tears of blood serve (aside from some dramatic story plot which shall be revealed in events to come)—I mean, if _I_ started bleeding from my eyes I'd be screaming my head off! Myra takes it so...calmly... Oh, and you're most welcome, dedications make me smile :)_

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><p><strong>Drink My Soul<strong>

_So not only is this chapter dedicated to the two fantastical people above—but it's also dedicated to my cold—not because I'm happy it's here, but mainly because it's kept me at a computer long enough to write this! Enjoy._

**Chapter Eight: Preparations**

"_Failure is nature's plan to prepare you for great responsibilities." _

–_**Napoleon Hill**_

She wasn't in the blood cellar, the kitchen or his private library. Three places she would have, in times past, spent most of her time. In the end, the Count decided to check her room- not that he wanted to, mind you. Women, he had learnt over his many years, were very peculiar about their space and when they had an argument?—The Count shuddered—Well, they could be quite... _turbulent_. Flitting to the door, he heard muttering on the other side. Not a conversation, he noted, simply inane nattering and placed it down to the De Fortunessa's habit of thinking out loud.

"Where in garlic's name is Renfield?" Myra hissed, as Count Dracula pushed the door open, observing the goddess before him. Though he could only see her back, the white blouse fit snugly, showing the curvaceous body hidden underneath and the black skirt showing skin so pale it was like the moon kissed—the Count swallowed sharply, almost forgetting himself in a moment. He was not about to open **that **door again. Myra spun around in an instant, "Bertrand! It happened again—...oh."

The two froze upon seeing one another.

Just below her eyes were streaks of red, wiped away from her nose. The Count, however, was not an idiot. She had..._blood, _on her...face.

Again? How had it happened the first time? Vampires were not supposed to _bleed _that was a job for breathers. There was no scent, from the blood either, like there should have been. But none could mistake the streaks on her face, the slight splattering on her shirt and the rags on the floor. Somehow (though it shouldn't really surprise the Regent as Myra tended to do the unexplainable) had that happened? The Count felt a muscle twitch near his nose. "What," he asked in a monotone, pointing, "is that?"

She glanced quickly to the sides, as her brows met in a look of confusion. "I had an accident?" she responded softly, hopefully.

The Count rolled his eyes. "With what? A blood bag and a door?" she nodded and the Count sighed, "I was joking—Myra."

Her eyes connected to the gold button near his midsection. In an undertone she replied, "I know, I just—I hoped you would never see this."

"And what is 'this'? Exactly." She shrugged. "_Myra_," the Count began exasperated, "I allow you to stay even after you **hit** me, I search for you even after you _hyper-suade_ me—"

Myra glared at him, eyes stinging but not only from the bleeding. How dare he treat her like such a burden? She was not _his _guest, but rather his son's. "If I remember correctly, you were _going_ to kick me out regardless of what I did or did not do, and I didn't ask you to find me. You made that decision all on your own."

"Right," he said slowly, thoughtfully. Deciding what best fit his frustration, and he landed on one: Hyper-suasion. It was not fair, he couldn't fight that and it was _that _he decided which frustrated him the most about her. Well, that and her looks which distracted him more often than not—but he would keep that to himself. With a light voice he said, "But, hyper-suasion Myra—you crossed the line at that."

She 'crossed the line'? Myra felt anger boil at the very pit of her stomach—this may be the vampire she cared for so long ago, but _no_ Vampire would ever tell her what her limits were. Not now, not after everything she's been through and especially not after recent events.

"How dare you!" she shouted, eyes flashing dangerously, "You push and push for a reaction, _Count_ but when one comes that you do not like, you flee and strike again at the next available moment! Battering the same point again and again!" the Golden eyes were bright as she spoke, and the eldest Dracula watched enchanted as she moved about in front of him, hands gesturing, voice sharp. "Hyper-suasion is supposed to be my last resort, the _only _power I have to defend myself from vampires like _you_!" she let out a bitter laugh.

"'I am for the Chosen One,'" she sung to him, "Do you remember how every vampire would tell me that? Young or old? Clan leader or Half-Fang? _My_ power, Count Dracula, is apparently for _your_ son. But what's the point? If **Gothar**, since you seem to have a fetish for his name, is after me at every turn—" she let out a sharp breath before pointing to her face sharply, "You want to know **exactly** what this is? _Hm_? Why I have _**blood**_ on my face when, apparently, Vampires can't bleed? I don't know. Okay? I don't have the first clue as to why I **can** bleed—all I know is in the past week I've used my ability more than I have in the last one hundred plus years, also I've been more emotionally high strung. Both which I believe are contributing factors."

The Count was in awe, not so much listening to the words which she said—but the pure unedited emotion which had attracted him to Arabella in the first place. Which was now (he faintly realised) what he missed the most about her. Myra was still the same person, to some degree, but more refined yet _emotional_, and less...well, clingy. When the words she was pouring out (that he stopped listening to) finally finished, Myra froze before covering her mouth instantly and her eyes wide.

"I didn't mean to rant—" she murmured from behind the hand "—everything's happening at once and...I'm afraid."

And it was _that_ which spurred the Count into moving. Stepping closer to her, he rested his hands on her shoulders. Relishing in their slim form and how they fit into the palm of his hand perfectly. He bowed his head closer to her; grey eyes warmed and while he squeezed those shoulders lightly. Maybe he _would _open that door again. Just to see what happened.

"You have no need to fear, Myra," he murmured and watched as those Golden eyes relaxed with the rest of her body. "Take a breath, and let's start again—what's the connection between your emotions, your ability and...the bleeding?"

Myra took a deep breath, melting into the grip which was both comforting and protective at the same time. She'd missed this: _them_. She forced herself to think.

"Now...whenever I use my powers, I feel myself loosing grips with this world and I enter the Dreamworld," she explained softly before adding, "and the bleeding started the other night after Bertrand accu—" she stopped herself short of explaining her theories to why the Dracula's were so strange, and changed tact, "after we had an argument. I was upset and was trying to sort through my emotions when Bertrand alerted me to," she looked away, "_this_."

The Count frowned. "Where is it you bleed from? I see no cuts on your face."

With a reluctant whisper she said, "My eyes." Then lent forwards, burying her face into the red velvet he wore inhaling sharply, trying to rein her emotions in. The Count unconsciously wrapped his arms around her. His mind racing: If she got too emotional her eyes would bleed, if she used her powers her eyes would bleed. What was happening to her? The Count couldn't risk a Clan Leader seeing her in this state, nor could he risk using her to buy time. Frustrated the Count barely swallowed his growl, merely a groaning in annoyance—but she was talking again,

"—Gothar," she hissed, "it has to be him, has to be."

The Count felt himself tense. Everything started with that imbecile—and with Myra. She had left him for _him_. He blinked recalling how Myra had been so abrupt with correcting him whenever the Count tried to call her Arabella. Perhaps she thought herself a different vampire from Arabella, and to some degree she was different, changed...vulnerable and yet stoic. Perfect, the Count thought.

"Perhaps," he intoned, not really wanting to think on it. He pulled her back, and locked eyes with her, hands on those shoulders once more. "I want you to stay here in this room," he requested, "We believe a Clan Leader is being called to by that blasted book your brother brought."

"I could distract—"

He narrowed his eyes. "_No_, Myra. Stay here, clean up, and rest."

"But Gothar—"

The Count dropped his head to his chin, groaning once more. "What does sleep have to do with that man?"

"Everything," she replied, "it was the reason I didn't wake up the first day—he was there...in the Dreamworld, waiting for me. If it hadn't been for you..." she faded off.

"He's been coming to you?" the Count asked slowly, raising his head. Once she nodded he asked, "Why?"

"He wanted to know if I'd found my brother, and if Bertrand had found the Chosen One," the Count looked at her in shock, _she was a spy! _She instantly deciphered his look and gripped his arm, "N-no! Vla—Count, I didn't tell him anything. I escaped from him, or at least I thought I did... apparently he let me go, but it...it doesn't make any sense."

"So," the Count stood pulling his arm away, voice dark, "inadvertently you _have_ become a spy, a danger to us."

Her eyes glossed over and hung her head. "Inadvertently," she replied, "but...I didn't mean to, Vladimir. I just wanted to escape; I knew the danger if I accepted your Vlad's proposal—but, I honestly thought Gothar would leave me alone."

He warmed as Myra spoke his name, and any anger felt seemed to dissipate. He sighed, reaching forwards to raise her head. "'Inadvertently' implies that 'you didn't mean to', Myra," he murmured with smirk, "Vlad is a...he made the right decision asking you to come here, and you accepting makes you no less responsible for Gothar's decision. Is there anything I should know? Or anything _else_ perhaps would work better."

Myra's small smile disappeared as quickly as it came. With a swallow she said, "I think he's after Vlad." The Count took a step and turned away from her, scrunching his fists. This was _not_ the right time to be finding out about all the dangers Vlad had. With a look over his shoulder he said,

"Stay."

And once Myra nodded, the Count flittered away. The Count used to never really have an effect on her; he was arm candy at first and could make her laugh when she was Arabella...but now, Myra found she liked him more than perhaps was healthy. He would protect her, because she didn't know who else would. With an annoyed shake of the head, Myra bent down to pick up the rag and using the only clean spot left proceeded to scrub her cheeks vigorously.

A small smile snaking its' way onto her mouth.

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><p>Bertrand sat with his back against the wall, staring at the <em>Praedictum Impaver<em> wistfully. They'd been close, both of them, so very close. Vlad to finally opening the book, and he to finally seeing his beloved—Bertrand let out a bitter laugh. She would have made a cruel joke about Vlad's temperament and it would have had him laughing so hard a lung may've come up. He smiled softly as he stared at the floor, still feeling miserable. Usually he tried to not think about her, and just focused on applying himself on the task at hand—but the thought that his death might be fast approaching by a Clan Leader left him reminiscing about _her_: Lavinia Sicilia.

Bertrand let out a light chuckle, as he remembered Arabella asking him to decipher Lavinia's name.

"_Bertrand, I've been meaning to ask— what sort of surname is 'Sicilia'? I've not heard of it before."_

"_It means 'from Sicily', Arabella," he explained from behind a tome detailing the best way to bite a running victim, "I'm surprised you've not asked her."_

"_Well," Arabella sighed, "I did. But she seemed intent on having me find out on my own. Something about 'if I enjoy reading so much, I should enjoy the etymology behind her name'."_

_Bertrand glanced up from the tome in interest. "So why ask me?"_

"_Why not?" she blinked innocently, "You have researched every tome in here, I thought it to be a waste of my time was I to do it myself."_

_Bertrand rolled his eyes. "Always the first to find the easy way out," he gave a sigh and recited, "The name Sicilia on the end of a name would equate to her being, 'Lavinia from Sicily'."_

_Arabella gave a pensive sigh. "So beautiful," she murmured, "Don't you think?"_

_Bertrand blinked, swallowing roughly. "If you say so, sister."_

_"I do."_

She had been one of Myra's closest friends, and at first Bertrand thought of the girl as bothersome, irritating and most definitely incapable of doing nothing but laughing. There was no denying her looks, however—stunning red hair falling in delicate waves, which cascaded down milk white skin and eyes of the deepest brown that he had ever seen. Yet despite all the annoyances, he fell for her. Slowly at first. And as time went on Bertrand found he could barely concentrate on what he was doing, as all thoughts were going out to that one person he _shouldn't_ like. _Couldn't _like.

Yet it was all the dangers behind liking her which made wanting to take her as his own, that much more appealing. So he went to his sister for advice. Myra had simply raised an eyebrow, smirking at him when Bertrand had tried to ask what he should do. There behind him, having heard his confession and frustrations was Lavinia herself, the Italian goddess. That was, without a doubt one of his more embarrassing moments.

"Lavinia, _mia dea_, it's times like this where I regret the slayers had not taken me as well. Together we could have died, and I would have been spared all this current emotional torment." He sighed, brooding was not exactly his forte—he wanted action to take place, not moping. "But I suppose little jester; things happen for a reason, I need only find mine."

He stood, and moved to his weapon collection removing his personal favourite, a Katana he had taken from a Japanese samurai he'd killed after his coming of age. At first Bertrand just held the blade in its sheath, feeling the familiar shape and weight.

"I've never seen such a look on your face before, Bertrand," Ingrid's voice sounded from behind, and the elder vampire gripped the encasement. _Another _annoying female.

"What do you want?" he ground out.

"To travel the world, see the sights, bite new and interesting people," she listed, "oh and power if you've got it." Bertrand turned to face her, thoroughly unamused. Ingrid smirked and rolled the grey eyes, "Take it you've never heard a joke."

"I take it you've never told one," he retorted. Ingrid smirk fled and she gritted her teeth. "I am in no mood for your games, spit it out Ingrid."

"I'm looking for Myra," she hissed.

"Obviously she's not here," Bertrand raising his eyebrows, "Unless you think I've"—he leant forwards and whispered overdramatically—"_shrunk her!_"

"What have I ever done to you?" she hissed.

Bertrand raised a brow. "Interrupted me," he pulled the Katana from its' sheath continuing in a whisper, "and that is perhaps the smallest crime you've committed."

Ingrid scrunched her fists in agitation. "If I remember: you asked **me** out," she growled, "And then framed Erin's 'almost death' on me."

A date? He scoffed at the notion that he could be with anyone other than his beloved. Bertrand walked forwards, sword by his side- the curved shape glinting maliciously in the light. "I never remember asking you on a date, Ingrid—nor have I the intention to. My exact words were '**you** can take me to dinner, in the blood cellar, 8 o'clock'," he hissed. "Not the other way round." Ingrid felt herself go cold inside, through embarrassment and anger. If that's the way he wants to play, **fine**. She turned to leave. In this day and age, Bertrand had still asked her out, _even_ if he deluded himself thinking he hadn't. "Oh and Ingrid," she halted, glancing over her shoulder, "try the coffin room—I'm sure she's resting."

It was wrong of her, she knew, to have had her hopes raised. After Will, Ingrid never wanted to look at another _boy_. But Bertrand was so, self assured and aware of his role, the idea of persuading him to join her was just so tantalising. A fantasy which would never happen, she realised now—so he would die, just like the rest of them.

Revenge would be sweet.

Ingrid didn't bother to knock when she got to the coffin room.

"_Myra_!" Ingrid roared as she swung the door open. The elder female, was oddly dressed—Sunglasses on her face, Bertrand's leather jacket over a black bra, and the Half-Fang's black skirt. "Whatever fashion magazines you've been looking at," Ingrid frowned, "have horribly misled you."

Myra quickly pulled the jacket over herself to cover the bra. "I was actually hoping you'd come by," she said quickly, "I'm sick of wearing the Half-fang's clothes—"

"I'd imagine so, she's so **boring**," Ingrid said.

Myra gritted her teeth. "I need clothes, obviously, would you mind lending me some?"

That gave Ingrid pause for thought. "And what would I get in return?"

"Me not running around half-naked, I'd imagine," Myra muttered, "What would you like?"

Ingrid was half tempted to ask Myra to kill her brother, but _that_ would've been a thoroughly misplaced idea—Myra wouldn't have done that. Unless Ingrid could somehow make Arabella her ally, it was Myra whom said she was unambitious—"A favour."

Myra blinked. "What sort of favour?"

"I'm not sure yet, but put it this way, 'you owe me one'—when I decide what it is, you have to agree to do it."

Weighing up her options, Myra thought running around half-naked (until Renfield spontaneously appeared with _clean_ clothes) would've been preferable, but would have enraged the Dracula female. "I will accept on one condition," she said. Ingrid narrowed her eyes, "if either the Count or our brothers deem this 'favour' both unorthodox and dangerous, I have the right to decline."

She wouldn't get much better than that, Ingrid noted. "Whatever," she muttered, "stay here I'm sure I can find something which will suit you."

Myra gave a small smile, and Ingrid rolled her eyes. She was enjoying the older vampire's company too much. "One question," Ingrid added as she walked towards the door.

"Only the one?"

"How do you deal with a clan leader?"

Myra let out a breath. "Each clan leader is different," she said leaning on Bertrand's closed coffin, "You have to judge both temperament and mannerisms which will give you an idea of how to act. For you in particular Ingrid, don't _question_ their power, challenge it the way a woman would."

Ingrid looked over her shoulder. "And how is that?"

Myra smirked. "Simply, wile him with your wicked ways," she quoted thinking of Bertrand as Ingrid smirked, "that ought to do the trick."

"Too easy," Ingrid crooned and left Myra alone in the room laughing softly. She wasn't sure if she should be worried about Ingrid's thirst for power, or humoured by it. She just hoped that Ingrid knew when to stop. In that respect Ingrid and the Count were identical. Pushing the same point again and again—with any luck Ingrid knew when enough was enough.

Myra sighed, and dug her hands into the front pockets of Bertrand's jacket. Fingers brushing a folded piece of paper.

"What have we here?"

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><p>Erin frowned at the back of Vlad's head before it disappeared as another burst of speed ran through him. What had gotten into the Vampire? He'd been distant, and moody, not to mention the reluctance she saw when Vlad would touch her. Was she poison to him now because Bertrand knew she was a human?<p>

Had Bertrand turned Vlad against her?

"Vlad!" she called, as he descended another staircase—she had no idea where he was heading, "Vlad where are we going?"

"—got to keep you safe," his voice sounded somewhere beneath her and Erin doubled her speed. Vlad turned to her with a bright smile, and Erin mimed it. Doubts being swept from her mind at the look of caring Vlad showed. "We're here," he said and Erin looked around.

The...cellar? "I'm _not_ staying down here in the cellar."

Vlad sighed, and grabbed her hand leading her into a smaller room off the main hall. Erin felt her heart flutter slightly as his hand squeezed hers, "It's only until I can figure out a plan to get you safely away."

Vlad dropped her hand as Erin ventured further into a cobweb filled room. "It's creepy," she whined softly and turned to her vampire...boyfriend.

"And living with us isn't?" he joked, he took a step back, "I'll be back soon, I promise."

Erin gave mock frown and a nod. "You better be, or I'll be wrapped up with the rest of the spider food."

Vlad gave a soft laugh, eyes glinting in humour. With a short bow, he turned and left Erin alone...again.

He seemed to be doing that a lot, Erin thought as she found a small wooden chair in a corner, turning his back on her. But she trusted him...in theory.

Hesitantly, she sat and waited.

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><p>The Count paced back and forth across the main living area. Ingrid was perched contentedly on the table with Bertrand mere inches away. Wolfie sat behind them staring wide-eyed at the agitated Count. Vlad was in danger, <em>he<em> was in danger and Myra couldn't do a single thing to help them—she was weak and that was something which the Count found himself in excess of, people who could do naught without him. Not that Myra couldn't survive without him, the Count amended. Myra _could_ of course hold her ground on an intellectual level but the Count knew nothing of her prowess in physical combat. So she was a liability, and the Regent sincerely hoped Myra stayed out of sight whilst the Dracula's and one De Fortunessa dealt with the problem at hand.

He paced faster.

"Master! Master!" the Count groaned, knees bending as if to give up on everything when Renfield came running into the room. He straightened and spun away from the pus-filled idiot, starting another lap. "Master, Miss McCauley would like a word."

The Count spun to him, leaning on the back of the arm chair one hand raised. "How about 'massacre'? Or 'annihilation'? Or 'slaughter'? Or _**blood-bath**_?"

All which they would be if the clan leader arrived and they were not prepared.

Renfield paused. "Is blood-bath two words?" then shook his head, remembering McCauley as he looked at the large heavy parcel he held in his hands, "She said it's urgent."

The Count had turned to face the fire-light fireplace, the flames dancing with his urgency and frustration. "Urgent?" he scoffed, "Some people just don't know the meaning of the word!" He turned away abruptly and headed for the door into the pathetic breather school.

"This came in the post for you—" Renfield started but was cut off by the Count's voice,

"You deal with it!"

Renfield unwrapped the parcel. With a frown he turned around, Ingrid came beside the insect-biter in a second. She bent, looking at a remarkably large bat. "Since when did Dad become a bat collector?"

Bertrand was on the other side instantly. "Let me see that!" Ingrid raised her eyes and stared at the hard grey through the glass. The way they inspected every detail, and met hers with a bright glint made Ingrid swallow suddenly. "This," Bertrand murmured softly, "is a rare specimen."

Renfield watched as the two vampires by his sides stood straight, when he noticed words. He frowned, mouthing them to himself before realising what the words meant, "Oh! Smash glass!"

Bertrand's eyes unlocked with Ingrid's in the next moment, hand raised—"Wait!" But it was too late. The idiotic breather dropped the glass and the room filled with smoke, as lighting flashed while thunder rumbled chaotically. Wolfie let out a howl and fled the room in panic.

Both vampires dropped to one knee, heads bowed, while Renfield remained frozen to the spot.

"I," a deep voice came from the mist, "am Ramanga."

Bertrand remained silent. Ingrid knew from her lessons as a child, that it was the women's job to welcome in a clan leader. Only, she had no idea what to say.

"Welcome," she started awkwardly, reluctant to continue though she knew she had to, "we are honoured with your presence."

Bertrand intoned a similar welcome in Latin, Ingrid wasn't sure what he said nor what it meant.

"Dom es mere dome tu est."

Only one phrase adequately summed up the mixed emotions of the people in the room and could only be said when Wolfie was not around:

Fuck. My. Life.

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><p><em><strong>AN.2: Naughty, naughty! Language like that is what kills adjectives—but it fits so delectably well, does it not? So what are our opinions on this chapter?<strong>_

_**Quick note, Bertrand calls Lavinia "My Goddess" in Italian.**_


	11. Chapter Nine: When All Things Fail

_**Disclaimer: Young Dracula is owned by people who own it, which just happens to **__not__** be me. The OC's however... yeah—I own 'em!**_

**Author's Note:** _**blows off cobwebs and layers upon layers of rainbow internet dust**_ Hello again my dear readers, I have returned. I'll keep the apologies and explanations short [if you're uninterested go a head a skip to the story!]- **Sorry everyone~~~** as much as not writing is concerned, I was blocked out of my account for a while due to complications with my e-mail, but once I managed to get around that loophole, I found myself sorely lacking my creative energy. As in I could not write at _all_. I'd like blame my workplace for sucking my creative juices, but that's only partially it. Anyway after an exceedingly long time I'm back! I'm also currently in process of editing the next two chapters and writing a third, so one way or another things will be done! **_proceeds to unwrap a sugary treat**_

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><p><strong>Drink My Soul<strong>

**Chapter Nine: When All Things Fail**

"_Failure is nature's plan to prepare you for great responsibilities." _

–_**Napoleon Hill**_

Myra couldn't quite make sense of what she was seeing. She blinked- as if that could change the information before her. In her hands she held a small cut out of paper creased several times, which she had pulled from her brother's jacket. In small elegant calligraphy, Bertrand had listed several addresses placing the numbers one through eight next to each one though not in sequential order. A majority of the addresses, she noted, had been crossed off. It was one of those addresses, which put her into a state of shock—it was Australian with a five-digit postcode, and Myra knew it was where she had resided with Gothar. Next to it was the numeral '1'. Myra scanned the rest of the numbers, murmuring the addresses as she followed the sequence until finally the eighth address read:

_Liverpool._

Though Myra wasn't sure how close Garside Grange _was_ to Liverpool, she knew that the addresses were either Gothar's past addresses or his current one. Worst of all, Bertrand had felt the need to underline Liverpool several times. Myra traced the familiar font with her fingers, not sure if she should feel comforted by Bertrand going after Gothar, or scared for her life.

She swallowed unevenly, replacing the note back into the pocket.

_What was Bertrand doing?_ She ran a hand hastily through her hair, when she felt the air become chilled suddenly. She looked up at the ceiling, watching as the tarantula that lived in the chandelier above her coffin scuttled hurriedly along the roof, and walls into a small crevice, where it was seen no more.

The Clan Leader had arrived.

Myra bit her bottom lip. "Worrying will get you nowhere," she hissed to herself and made her way to Bertrand's makeshift wardrobe. Pulling out a simple black suit top and fishing out a blood red tie, Myra hastily began the creation of an outfit. "No use in being held up in here if I can do something to help. Sorry, Vladimir."

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><p>The knee-high boots the Count favoured so much did nothing but slow him down in his haste to move along the corridors of Garside Grange. Slipping through the shadows, smiling awkwardly across as the young girls waved at him from inside their classrooms, only to be caught out by their teachers. Granted the Count did feel better knowing he could still make young girls' weak at the knees, but at this point and time he was Count Dracula on a mission.<p>

Even if that mission was to see a Breather.

The old wooden door was the only thing standing in the way of him and one miss Alexander McCauley, he put on another burst of speed carelessly crossing into a beam of light which shone through an old window. He grimaced, but simply brushed at his stinging hand until the distance between he and the door had been closed. One hand on the handle, he pushed forwards into the room and all sense of urgency evaporated. Those high cheek bones, full luscious lips, and beautiful piercing blue eyes—so tantalizing, that the Count found himself inhaling on instinct just to fill his nose with the perfume she chose to wear. Smooth and light at first, before the spice bled through and the Count lost all ability to think.

Well, until the little minx of a breather noticed he had entered the room, and he opened his mouth to talk about something. Only he had no idea what. A hard look crossed her features, and she stood, much less gracefully (he imagined) than Myra would but just as beautifully.

"I found these in your office," she held onto a stack of papers. The Count blinked helplessly, not quite knowing what to say. She pushed on, "I take it you've not read them yet."

He felt the air around him pulse, and instantly knew _now_ was not the time to be dealing with this. Papers and _**reading**_ of all things? Letting his head drop against the wooden frame heavily he felt panic flood through him. He looked back down the corridor he'd rushed through, only to smell that, that _scent_ of hers.

"I really need your input on the staffing levels."

The Count sent her a pained look, quickly murmuring, "I have no idea what a staffing level is," and turned to leave the room but she was already speaking.

"Staffing levels refer to the amount of teachers we have employed."

Exasperation would sufficiently describe how he felt at this point and time. "Very good! Carry on without me."

With a roll of his eyes, he turned to leave but again she started speaking.

"It _can't_ wait." Anger pulsed, but the second he turned to her she was already speaking, "Time is now critical. I have to hire new staff and I need you to approve of the candidates."

The Count was at a loss for words. Hardly something he was ever short of, but he admired her strength to question _him_, a Dracula.

He gave in to the beauty standing before him.

What else could he do, she was a little minx?

Muttering, 'alright' under his breath, the Count held the papers firmly and began to scan through the details.

* * *

><p>Ramanga could smell them. Could feel them. Could <em>taste<em> them. Breathers, their young hearts thrumming loudly, a mass choir to his ears, some bigger, some smaller—he could sense them all.

"You're hiding in a school for breathers," he hissed. Disgust only _one_ of the emotions he was feeling, amongst the insatiable hunger.

Bertrand stared dead ahead, posture stiff. _As if ready to fight at any moment_, Ingrid noted.

"We're being cautious," he explained steadily.

"The only thing breathers need learn is how to _feed_ us," Ramanga intoned lightly.

Ingrid thought this clan leader was too... arrogant. The only arrogance allowed was to be made by her and her alone. Not some _pathetic_ Clan Leader. She was the _only_ one whom was to torment Bertrand, to make her father feel fear.

"We like to play with our food before we eat it," she crooned. Bertrand sent her a glare, and Ingrid couldn't help feeling just a little smug.

The Clan Leader paused for a moment, regarding the little vampire before him. He liked her, "Hm," he muttered without commitment, "Where's the Chosen One?"

Bertrand gave a quick bow. "I—I'll bring him before you," he stuttered.

Ingrid felt her smirk settle into place as she heard the wavering voice of the _invincible_ Bertrand. But he barely gave her a second glance as he left the room. Ingrid turned to glower at the roaring fire angrily.

_Stupid. Stupid. Stupid_, she admonished, _revenge Ingrid, you're not supposed to _help_ him._ Ramanga entered her vision, capturing her eyes with those dark soulless pits;

"Well this has turned out nice in the end," Renfield began awkwardly, before turning to Ramanga and holding his hands out, "Can I take your—?"

Ramanga didn't even spare the pus filled maggot a glance. "**Don't **touch."

Renfield dropped his arms in an instant. The deep voice brought Ingrid out of her reprieve, "Go and tell the Count that our _honoured_ guest has arrived."

The breather all but ran from the room.

_Wile him with your wicked ways she'd said_, Ingrid recited before sending Ramanga a flirtatious smirk.

* * *

><p>The Count stared at names and faces which he really, <em>truly<em> couldn't be bothered with. One face bled into another, names washed over the Count's head and their 'hobbies'? Yes well, he didn't particularly care if one Mr Smith liked golf on the weekend.

"Look," he whined, dropping the hand holding the papers against his lap, "I really don't have time for these... minutiae."

She walked straight past him. "The devil's in the details, Mr Count."

"He's in a lot more than that," he growled, glaring at the papers before him, until Renfield came bursting into the room.

"We've had a delivery!" he stated, words melding into one.

The Count ignored him and went back to staring into the boring brown eyes of Mr Smith, when he attempted to try and read the reference again.

_I have spent most of my time abroad specialising in history-_"A special delivery!" Renfield repeated urgently, "You have to sign for it!"

And the Count gave up.

"Can _nobody_ do anything in this place without me?" he roared, turning his heated glare onto Renfield, "If it needs a signature I'm sure your scrawl will suffice."

Renfield paid no mind. "Some_one_'s here!"

_I have spent most of my time—_

"Y'know the—"

_Spent most of—_a ghoulish shout and Renfield had his Master's attention once more, so he began to mime the appearance of the Clan Leader. Ms McCauley turned her head with a light frown. _What was he doing_?

"—Thing!" Renfield gnashed his teeth together softly, and pointed to her quickly.

"Eh?" The Count's eyes danced back and forth between the two before realisation covered his features and fear set in. "R_ight_, I've got to go. Urgent business to attend."

He stood and followed Renfield out.

"But I really need your approval on these candidates," she was (sufficed to say) a little put out, but the Count barely paused.

Clan Leader.

In his home.

He could die, what's he care about some _breather_? "We'll do this later," he lied.

And the tail of his coat was the last thing Miss McCauley saw before the wooden door slammed shut.

* * *

><p>Myra dressed in the dirty white jeans from before and her brother's black shirt, sleeves rolled up while the blood red tie formed a loose waist belt looked like someone had just dragged her from a pirate's story book. Only the dark glasses on her face set her apart. Her bare feet tapped against the wooden boards as she made her way to the main area of the manor, where she was sure she could feel the Clan Leader. Well, that was until she heard two pairs of footsteps speeding simultaneously along the stairwell. Light steps from beneath her, and heavier steps from above. Her eyes darted to find a quick escape, and she found a small door to her left—without even hesitating, Myra threw herself through the door and into a dust filled room, tarp covering various shapes. She paid no mind, preferring to eavesdrop on what was happening outside.<p>

Bertrand hurried down the steps.

He had to get to Myra and explain the situation, perhaps hide her in the cellar until Ramanga was gone. Then he could find Vlad, make up some plan and—he sniffed the air, and heard footsteps.

Erin had been down here, and those footsteps belonged to Vlad.

_They aren't doing something so stupid when they know the danger_, he thought angrily and sped down the steps now wanting to find Vlad at all costs. But Vlad met him halfway.

"Vlad," the younger vampire quickly glanced and met his eyes, "The Clan Leader's here. Don't tell him you can't open the book—play for time."

Vlad glared at the floor. "What's the point," he murmured, "I'm never gonna get it open."

Bertrand wanted to shake the Chosen One until he lived up to that supposed title of his meant. "You can if you get those stupid ideas out your head."

Vlad frowned. "What ideas?"

_Sure, play innocent now,_ Bertrand rolled his eyes internally. "You want vampires and breathers to live together in peace. You want the bloodshed to end forever."

Anger piqued through the young Vladimir Dracula. "You were _spying_ on us."

Bertrand imagined punching the boy. Why _wouldn't_ he spy on the Chosen One and his half-fang girl? "You and Erin are vampires, you can't change that."

Vlad swallowed roughly. "Yeah... _yeah!_ We are vampires!" Bertrand rolled his eyes, until the boy continued, "Vampires who want humans to be our friends not food."

"You want to stake your life on that?" Bertrand hissed towering above the boy menacingly.

"If that's what it takes," came the self-assured answer.

"Go tell that to Ramanga," he whispered, "and it'll be the last thing you do."

There was silence. "I'll be with you in a minute. I've got something I need to do."

They parted ways in an instant, Bertrand returning to Ramanga too angry to warn his sister, and Vlad hastily descending to Erin.

"Don't keep him waiting," Bertrand ordered and flittered away.

What was that all about? Vlad wanted _breathers _to live amongst vampires? That would never work! Maybe if she could talk to him, explain something that his father obviously had neglected, she was sure that the Count would've missed something. But then there was that pause, the slight tone of disbelief in regards to the half-fang...something was going on. Myra counted to ten before deciding to open the door—by that stage the two were far-gone, Vlad's footsteps faint and at the bottom of the stairwell, Bertrand not even in the same area. A quick sniff and she decided to follow Bertrand up to where the Clan Leader was waiting.

She wasn't some damsel who would wait in the wings for help to arrive, or let the 'big strong males' take care of her. Myra didn't need that, what she needed was to do _something_ and a battle of the wits was something she had always been good at, even when she'd been with Gothar. She would speak to Vlad after she bought the Dracula's some time.

Halfway towards the steps going up and Myra heard it. A voice, no...rather, a whisper? The echo of the Chosen One but much darker, sinister.

"_**I'm in the mirror room**_."

It felt as if her entire body had come alive.

That voice was the reason she had her powers, it was _her_ reason for _being_.

Without ever really making a conscious decision—she began to move, and her eyes to sting. She knew what was happening, the voice which called to Vlad called to her as well.

"_**Look for the mirror... **_

_**that's right...I'm over here... **_

_**here in the dark... I'm in here! **_

_**In **_**here**_**! **_

_**Look for the mirror!**_"


	12. Chapter Ten: Impending Storm

_**Disclaimer: Young Dracula is owned by people who own it, which just happens to **__not__** be me. The OC's however... yeah—I own 'em!**_

**Author's Note: **Ah, it feels so good to be writing again! **insert cheshire cat-like grin here** It's finally raining where I live after some ridiculously hot weather, and I'm not working meaning I could get this new chapter out for my lovely readers.

_Reviews, though not required are greatly appreciated: the good, the bad, and the otherwise (un)related!_

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 10: Impending Storm<strong>

"_Ignorance of impending evil is far better than a knowledge of its approach."_

—_**Marcus Tullius Cicero**_

* * *

><p>Ingrid could, if she really wanted to, grow a beard—all because of the rising testosterone levels. But then if that were the case she'd have also lost intelligence after listening to her father's pathetic excuses. Ingrid wondered what Arabella must have seen in the man, but stopped short as the Clan Leader attempted another round of questions.<p>

"Has the Praedictum Impaver been opened?" Ramanga paced before the Count, who in turn looked as if he wanted to run at any given moment.

"Well...I'm _really_ not at liberty to—"

"Has he opened the book?"

"Well, some of the bones have opened but—"

"Yes, or no," Ramanga growled.

"Well it's a work in progress," the Count began but Ingrid intervened, "No—he can't open the book." The Count sent a cold glare at the girl.

Ramanga paused for a moment, processing this new information. If this was true then they might _never_ find their destinies. The Dracula's would need to be annihilated so a new Chosen One could be found, and Bertrand De Fortunessa? There were no children whom Ramanga knew of, meaning that unless Arabella decided to make a miraculous return and continue the line, then Bertrand must perish so a new tutor could be chosen. Arabella was too precious to lose, they only needed to find her and remove Elathin's influence from her.

"Is this true?" he asked the Count.

"Well, he's been working very hard!"

"You were _supposed_ to be training him—" Ramanga hissed as Bertrand entered the room. Bertrand immediately situated himself near Ingrid, but ignored the girl completely. Ingrid narrowed her eyes, keeping her attention forwards. She would not do anything to help them further, she wouldn't. Not in the slightest.

"But we have! Bertrand is an excellent—"

"You have failed," Ramanga concluded, "We demand to know why."

The Count folded his arms, giving his fangs a onceover with his tongue smoothing the dry surface, frustration easy for all to see—if Myra had been here, she could have used hyper-suasion and this little problem wouldn't be so..._big_. He sniffed and muttered, "Well, I wouldn't say _failed_...exactly."

Ramanga growled at him and turned to Bertrand. "_Where_ is the Chosen One? Still he keeps me waiting!"

Bertrand swallowed. "He said he'd just be a moment."

Renfield stuck his head through the door. "Miss McCauley's here to see you."

Scrunching the fists by his side, the Count hissed, "Not now Renfield, get rid of her!" Before forcing a smile over his features, not as easy as he would have hoped with everything seemingly going wrong, all he needed now was Myra to appear before the Clan Leader, Vlad to disappear and the half-fang to spontaneously make an appearance, then he'd _really_ have a day made of sunlight.

"I'm sure he'll be here soon," he breathed.

Ramanga's nose twitched in agitation. "This is most disrespectful."

"She's at the door," Renfield whispered, "She says it's very urgent."

_For once_, the Count pleaded; _for once just let everything go right._ "**Tell her I'm**—" in an instant he realised yelling would not exactly be the best of ideas; they both glanced at Ramanga before he continued, "—tell her I'm indisposed."

Renfield nodded and disappeared through the door. The Count forced another smile to appear in the silent room before the ruckus of outside began, and the Count knew he had no luck.

"You're not allowed here!" the door flew open, and Renfield pushed in, "These are Mister Count's _private_ quarters!"

Alexander McCauley had enough. What with having given the Count sufficient warning about these new candidates, pulling strings to enrol Myra for a short-term as well as being rudely pushed aside all for some –she glanced about the room, ignoring the obvious tension—gathering. The room was stifling even in the middle of autumn with a roaring fire the only source of light (along with some candles, she spotted) when it was the middle of the day. Couldn't they open the curtains? Let in some fresh sunlight, or at the very least crack open a window? They were eccentric, she knew and she accepted that even—but all she asked of the Count, all she _ever_ asked of the Count was for a signature and just a bit of his time.

He was the one that invested into the school, not her.

She was the principal, yes—but he had the overall say in the way the school ran (after the guidelines of course), but this was enough.

"Mr Count," she said simply, "a word."

The bright grey eyes traced over her features, memorising them. It was a habit the Count was slowly developing when he was in the presence of this headstrong beauty.

"Ah, a breather," Ramanga crooned eyes connecting instantly with Ms McCauley, "Good, I am thirsty after my long journey."

She couldn't quite follow the conversation, her thoughts melding into one until all Alex thought was—breathe in, and out. The Count felt his stomach give a painful lurch—"You can't have this one, she's mine!" The Count carefully placed a hand on her shoulder, trying to gently push her back out of the room, "I'll be one moment!" He clicked his fingers in front of her face, and to Renfield ordered, "A drink for our guest."

Alex blinked rapidly, and upon feeling the strong hand on her shoulder returned to her senses. She stepped away. "I urgently need your approval for the candidates before I can start hiring."

The Count pinched the bridge of his nose. "And as you can see, I have a visitor so I must insist that we do this later—" gripping her arm once more "—good bye."

She pulled out of his grip, staring into the eyes of the stranger once more. "Then," she began, mind hazing once more, "I'll wait for you until you've finished."

The Count snapped his fingers once more, and she shook her head this time. "Alright, alright—just... let's do it quickly here, show me the candidates."

She frowned at him. "The papers are in my office," he groaned _of course they were_, and hit his head against the doorframe. "It has to be done today," she pushed.

"Urgh... right," he pushed her from the room, "Just give me two minutes, I'll be right there." She opened her mouth to protest. "_Go_," he ushered her along, "go!"

Once the door was shut the Count barely had time to collect his thoughts, as the door from the stairwell was pushed open roughly. He turned to see the half-fang moved across to Bertrand, and with a smile to the Clan Leader, the Count jogged and intercepted the girl halfway.

"Where's Vlad?" he pushed the question out from behind his smile. Erin hesitated, smiling at the menacing figure standing across the room from her.

"He's been chucked into the mirror."

The Count froze, smile faltering—"What?" Bertrand materialised out of nowhere, and the Count turned to him in shock, "Vlad...got chucked into the mirror."

Bertrand choked—"_What_?!"

The Clan Leader started to move towards them, when Renfield appeared, glass in hand. "Look we don't have time for this—just go with Erin and find Vlad."

"The half-fang," Bertrand scoffed. He'd rather gouge his own eyes out. With a side-glance at Ingrid, he glowered wistfully. This wouldn't be so bad if Ingrid just stepped up and entertained the Clan Leader until they figured out what to do.

The Count jabbed him in the ribs. "This is no time to get snobbish—"

"There's something else," Erin began but the Count ignored her.

"We do _not_ have time for this...**Go**."

She gave a quick sigh, before leading Bertrand out the room, the latter glancing back in annoyance. Ingrid should be the one going, not _him_. He knew how to deal with Clan Leaders, Myra knew how to deal with Clan Leaders—Ingrid...did not. Also, he suspected, she could try to manoeuvre the Clan Leader to her way of thinking. Gritting his teeth he followed the blonde out.

The Count lent down to Ingrid's level, not even chastising her for sitting near his throne. "I've got to deal with Miss McCauley; I need you to deal with our guest while I'm gone."

"Why not just get My—?" the Count narrowed his eyes warningly, and she stopped short.

"Because _she_ is in absolutely no condition to deal with our... political..." the Count struggled for a moment, "our... our, problems, let's just put it that way. So, you'll have to be the one do deal with it. And believe me, I like this no more than you do."

Ingrid sneered. "This is _your_ mess; I'm not helping you clean it up. I'll only be too glad if he ash'd you all."

The Count's features darkened all at once, and Ingrid felt a part of her go cold. "For once in your pathetic little life," he hissed, "will you tow the party line and play ball?" he sent a dazzling smile at Ramanga, before turning to her again, all traces of warmth gone. "This is your neck on the block too."

And so Ingrid swallowed roughly as her father, once again dug his grave but refused to lay in it. She stretched her jaw in agitation before Ramanga caught her attention and raised his glass. She smirked—if she was going to deal with her father's guest, she might as well save her own life, as well as help her build a social network of the most powerful.

Never cross the Princess of Darkness.

* * *

><p>Erin gnawed on her bottom lip, feet lightly tapping against the steps.<p>

Bertrand purposefully leaving half a flight of stairs between them, but he wouldn't start whining that he was with a _half-fang_. He wouldn't. No—that was not part of who he was. Well, he didn't really have time to indulge it even if it were, so with a deep breath in he collected anything that could distract him, and in a single breath—expelled it from his body.

Erin spun to him upon hearing the sigh, feet on two different steps. Bertrand looked like he just connected with a brick wall, stopping instantly. Raising an irritated eyebrow in a questioning manner, as if to say _well_?

"What have I ever done to you?" Erin hissed.

Well now, that seemed to be the question of the day, 'what have I done?'

"Have you ever stopped to think that it's because you _haven't_ done anything, and that's exactly the problem? Hn, _Erin_?" she didn't like the way he said her name, so evilly, so maliciously. Erin barely suppressed a shudder as he continued, "I'd rather not have to deal with you any more than is deemed necessary, if you wouldn't mind."

"I _do_, mind!" Erin exclaimed.

"We haven't time to deal with your insecurities, Half-Fang, when all our lives are in danger."

"What is your problem?" she ground out between clenched teeth, and Bertrand sniffed in irritation. With a single blink he pushed past her—

"Haven't got one."

Myra's whole _give love a chance_ speech had (as much as he hated to admit it) got to him. Not that he was particularly keen on the idea, but if it shut Vlad up then he'd do it, as much as he detested the half fang. He didn't want to be turned into ash any time soon. He'd rather just swallow the bile which rose when he thought about working with Breathers, and just deal with staying alive.

Erin, gave a huff, and with a lick of her lips followed Bertrand down the steps. The second Erin's foot touched the bottom of the staircase; Wolfie came rushing down the steps. A look of pure innocence on his face—Bertrand paused only for a moment, allowing the two to pass him.

"You said there was something else," Bertrand murmured reluctantly, and Erin swallowed quickly.

"I saw Myra," she explained vaguely.

Bertrand rolled his eyes. "Yes I'm sure everyone's seen her at one point or another."

"I saw Myra," Erin repeated in frustration, "and her eyes were purely gold, as in no whites of the eye or anything, and…they were bleeding."

Bertrand blinked quickly. "What...?"

"She was kind of in a trance, walking towards the cellar," Erin muttered, "but when I called out to her I found myself running to the mirror room instead."

Bertrand barely restrained the urge to turn on his heel to find his sibling, but Erin continued talking—"that's when I saw the gargoyles chuck him in."

Right, Vlad. Because he had to choose between his sister and his duty, Bertrand pulled forth his patience; The Chosen One was more important now. Myra would understand, or he hoped she would at least.

They'd finally arrived at the mirror room. The golden faces of the Gargoyles watched the three enter.

"Like I said," Erin repeated, "they just...chucked him in."

Wolfie crossed the threshold of the mirror and turned to Bertrand, cutely saying, "I'm a dog!" Yet the two ignored him as the gargoyles took two threatening steps forwards.

"Those gargoyles won't let you anywhere near the mirror."

She swallowed roughly, dropping her jaw slightly, as her body shook with understated fear. Bertrand remained unfazed, simply explaining, "Yeah, they guard it." Then the accusation began, and Erin had to bite her tongue as he continued, "They must've thought you were a threat."

Erin turned to him abruptly. "Maybe if we...smashed it," she thought, "it would release him?"

"No," Bertrand simply shook his head as anger and impatience bleed thorough his tone, "If we do that the entire family'll turn to dust." Wolfie sent his reflection a playful woof, as the elder vampire continued, "There's no sign of him. Wherever he is, we can't follow."

And with that said, he grabbed Wolfie by the shoulders, and roughly steered him from the room eager to find his younger sibling. Erin gave a sigh and turned from the empty mirror with reluctance following in the footsteps of Bertrand.

Just beyond the reflective glass, Vlad shot Erin a look of sheer desperation. What was he going to do now? How was he going to get out?

What was happening?

And then.

The voice again.

"_**The answer lies within. Come to me...**_"

* * *

><p>From the moment Myra had heard the voice, her body had become someone else's. As if it was on autopilot. One moment she'd been going to Bertrand, next second...she was blinking her eyes. Slightly disorientated she glanced about before finally recognising the blood cellar. The familiar sting had returned. She didn't even need to raise her hands to realise her eyes had bled once more. Yet the wet substance dripping from her chin and the throng of energy flowing through her body was completely new. Casting her eyes and sniffing slightly she spotted the opened bottle of blood carelessly placed on top of the wine racks. A rough swallow and Myra understood that whilst she had not been herself, she'd gotten into the bottle. It looked like she'd drunk three quarters before finally coming to her senses. Unconsciously she licked her lips; tasting the familiar substance. Glancing about the room, Myra tried to find something to wipe her face, when she came across what looked like an old dress, stuffed away into a corner. Pink, with frills like a ballerina's ensemble, and Myra shuddered to think who would own something so tasteless. But underneath it a single black wife beater lay, and Myra used the garment to wipe her face clear. When once more, her body reacted to a familiar voice:<p>

"_**Come to me, the answer lies within. I will help you..."**_

Only this time, Myra was more aware of herself as she felt the old power from the days before Gothar flow through and join together with the blood high. It was an intoxicating feeling, but though she could still think the pull of the dark voice was more powerful.

Yet knowing this, she couldn't help the small smirk which played around her lips.

Myra felt like herself once more.

* * *

><p><em><strong>AN: <strong>Reviews, anyone? Until next week~_


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